


Silver Lining

by silencethroughwords



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, One Shot Collection, POV Second Person, Pre-Series, Reader-Insert, Romance, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3536762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silencethroughwords/pseuds/silencethroughwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is a series of oneshots about Dean and the reader, who have known each other since they were kids and how Valentine's Day has changed for them over the years (friendship to relationship, unrequited love, etc). Takes place from 1991 to 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> This story is complete, and I'll be adding one chapter per day here. I refer to the reader's name as Y/N throughout the story, if you don't want to see that, you can use this Chrome extension [here](http://interactivefics.tumblr.com) to change it to whatever name you want.

“What’s  _Valentine’s_ Day?”

Dean was kidding, wasn’t he? He was  _twelve._ He should know what Valentine’s Day was; you knew and you were only barely ten. Even your little brother, Andy, knew and he was  _seven._ For someone who acted like he knew everything about everything, Dean could be really dumb sometimes. “It’s a day every year where people celebrate love of all kinds.”

He scoffed, pouring milk onto his bowl of cereal. “Sounds cheesy.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

He put the carton down and stared at you. “It’s a  _girly_ thing,” he said, “Men don’t do cheesy stuff.”

“ _Uh_ —” You crossed your arms over your chest “—my dad celebrates it with my mom every year. And they get us presents and stuff.”

He looked down at his feet and moved to grab a spoon from beside the sink. “Yeah, well,” he mumbled, “Bet your mom makes him do it.”

That wasn’t true; your mom was the one who insisted that it wasn’t necessary and that your dad didn’t have to go out of his way to do stuff for her, but you didn’t want to argue about this anymore. Dean got sad every time you talked about your mom in front of him because he didn’t have a mom, which was  _so unfair._ You had a mom and a dad and they were barely ever around because they hunted monsters, like Dean’s dad, so Dean must be alone with Sam a lot more often, and he told you that sometimes they were  _alone_ alone, not just with other kids or with Uncle Bobby like you and your brother were when your parents were gone together.

“Hey, do you wanna go get some candy?” you asked, “I have money.”

He shook his head, sinking on the couch in front of the TV and digging into his bowl. “Sam and Andy are asleep,” he said, “Someone’s gotta watch out for them.”

You rolled your eyes. “We’ll only be gone five minutes,” you said, “Nothing bad is going to happen to them.”

“ _No_.” He turned the volume up, not even looking your way. “They’re my responsibility.”

“ _Our_ responsibility.”

“Not according to my dad,” he mumbled, munching down a spoonful. “You go if you want to.”

“Your loss.” You shrugged, grabbed your cash from your jacket and went to the store near the motel. They didn’t have a lot of stuff that you liked, but there were a lot of chocolate packages in a pretty shade of red for today. Some of them looked big, too, so if you got one, maybe you could all share. You grabbed one that looked like a big heart with a golden bow on it and went to the cashier. Standing on the tip of your toes, you tapped on the glass to get the man’s attention, “Sir?”

He turned around and spotted you, narrowing his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Um.” You slid the box on the counter. “How much is this?”

“Ten dollars,” he answered, snatching it away.  _Good, that’s just the amount of –_ “And three more.”

“What?  _Why?_ ”

“You think I didn’t see you and your little friend earlier grabbing that sandwich behind my back?”

You grimaced and took a step back.  _There goes the chocolate._ “Alright, how much –” You grabbed the nearest gummy bear bag you could find “—is  _this_?”

“Five.”

“ _Five_?” you repeated.

“Take it or leave it, kid.”

You sighed, pulled the money from your pocket and handed it over to him. “Thanks.”

Why did you do that? You should’ve just left. Now you had two dollars and only one small bag of gummy bears. There was no way you could share this with all three of them, but you could pretend Sam and Andy weren’t there. It wasn’t like they would  _know_. You could just split this halfway with Dean and then maybe in the morning you could both go back there and grab another sandwich. It wasn’t like you didn’t pay for it.

Once you reached your room, you opened the door and stepped in, only to find Dean jumping out of his seat and wiping his face, his empty bowl falling to the floor. “You scared me!”

“You scare easy, Dean,” you said, pushing the door close. When you turned around he was still wiping his face furiously, looking away. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, okay?” he snapped, bending down to grab the bowl and throwing it across the room to the sink.

“What’s  _wrong_?” You knew he was lying. He was  _such_ a bad liar. “Is it Sam? Andy? Is everything okay?”

“What?” His face went blank for a moment. “Yeah, no, no, they’re fine, don’t worry,” he said. “Did you get the candy?”

You looked down at the bag in your hand. Dean didn’t like to talk about things that made him sad, but he liked to eat. A lot. “Yeah, I, uh, ate mine on the way,” you lied, walking towards him and handing him the bag, “These are yours.”

He paused, stared at them for a moment then frowned. “ _Really_?” he asked, smiling, “For me? All of them?”

You nodded and his smile turned into a grin. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

—

**1997**

“I have to say,” Dean said, leaning on the doorframe, eyes roaming your body, “When you said you wanted to see me today, this wasn’t the kind of red I was expecting.”

You pushed past him and stepped inside, getting rid of your jacket with a huff. Your t-shirt was torn at the edge all the way up to the edge of your bra, very sexily revealing the blood of the two vampires you’d beheaded earlier. Movies made this stuff seem easy, clean but, dammit, as soon as your machete met the corner of their necks it was a freakin’ fountain of doom. “Got a decent shower I could use?” you asked, “And maybe a shirt?”

He dug up a scrunched shirt from the duffel bag by the door and threw it your way. “You still running low on supplies?”

“You promised we wouldn’t talk about this,” you said through gritted teeth, striding to the bathroom. When you’d called him earlier, knowing all three of them – John, Dean and Sam – were around in the same state you were in, and told him you’d be coming over, you made him promise he wouldn’t talk about the whole thing with you being on your own or tell his dad about your presence. You didn’t need him to pull a Winchester on you – tell you that you shouldn’t have left your family after what happened to Andy, talk you into going back to the people who couldn’t look you in the eyes anymore after you failed to protect your little brother from spending the rest of his life stuck in a wheelchair, or worse: tell you it was “okay”.

It wasn’t, nothing was, and you didn’t need your best friend – your  _only_ friend – to lie to you.

When you got out of the shower, you found him leaning on the “kitchen” table, another duffel bag in hand, his stance expectant, serious, like he was preparing to say something once you got out.  _Nope._ You ignored him and walked into the adjacent bedroom, throwing your dirty clothes on the bed. “Y/N,” you heard him say from behind you.

“Let me guess.” You turned on your heels and crossed your arms over your chest, your – _his—_ shirt riding up as you did. “You’re going to pull the  _I’m-older-than-you_  card and then tell me what I’m doing is stupid and irresponsible.”

He dropped the duffel bag gently on the floor. “No.”

You blinked. “ _No_?”

He clenched his jaw, averting his gaze for a moment. “What you’re doing…” He cleared his throat. “It’s dangerous, and, well…”

“What?”

“Brave as hell.”

Your eyebrows shot up and your crossed arms loosened –  _did he just say brave?_  Of all the things you expected Dean to call your actions, that was definitely the least you expected, even less so than something along the lines of “awesome” or “cool.” Dean always sided with your family, especially your mother, on whatever argument you were having. He always said that family was above all, and that yours especially deserved what you felt were compromises. So ever since Andy’s incident, you avoided this topic at all costs with everyone, but with him especially, knowing he’d side with them and tell you to go back like they wanted you to.

“If this was Sam, I don’t know what I would’ve done,” he admitted, “You don’t want to fail your brother again, I get it.”

You wanted to agree. You wanted to tell him that yes, the reason you left was that you didn’t want to fail your brother again, but it wasn’t that – as much as you wished it was. The real reason was a lot more cowardly, more selfish; you couldn’t live with the silent blame in their eyes. You couldn’t watch your own brother struggle to move. You couldn’t wake up every morning and face what happened – what  _you_ made happen. You couldn’t  _breathe_ all the way knowing you’d wrecked your own family, knowing that even if they didn’t voice it, even if they didn’t want to, they didn’t love you the same way they’d done before – they didn’t forgive you, and never would.

How could they, when you couldn’t even forgive yourself?

You pressed your fingers to the sides of your nose, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to form. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes to get rid of the stinging and rubbing the side of your arm.

“I do,” he insisted, “Your dad talked to mine, he told him everything that happened that day.”

“Aha.”

“I still don’t think you should be on your own, Y/N,” he said, “You’re only sixteen, you shouldn’t –”

You shook your head. “Hunting is the only thing I know how to do,” you said, “And it’s not like I’m always on my own; I find other hunters in the areas I cover, pair up with them.”

“You’re trusting complete strangers with your life?”

“ _They’re_ trusting me with theirs,” you corrected, “They’re the ones who should be worried.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Today,” he started, “The vampires – did you pair up with someone else on that one?” You nodded. “Even though you  _know_ we’re in the area?”

You shrugged. “They were closer.”

“Bullshit.” He took a step towards you. “What’s that really about, Y/N? This whole working with strangers thing?”

_They’re easier to work with. If I mess up, and someone gets hurt, I’ll never have to live with the guilt; they’ll be collateral, names without faces, numbers in my journal. I’ll never have to see them or their loved ones again. I’ll disappear from their lives and if I’m lucky enough, they’ll disappear from mine as well._ “I don’t have a lot of contacts I know very well.”

“You had us for this one!” he argued, “You had  _me_. I was one call away – the same call you made  _after_ you were done with the hunt.”

The more he pressed the subject, the harder it was becoming to breathe. “Let’s just not, alright? Let this go.”

He looked straight-out offended. “No!” You exhaled sharply, rubbing your eyes. “Y/N, I swear, if you don’t tell me what’s up with you  _right_ now I’m calling Dad and telling him you’re here,” he said, “And you know he’ll call yours and they’ll be here before you know it.”

You froze and lowered your hand. “That’s  _low_. I thought you had my back!”

“I’m trying to.” He took a deep breath. “I can’t look out for you if you won’t give me a good reason why you’re not looking out for  _yourself_ right now.”

You shook your head and snatched your dirty jeans from the bed, sliding the stiff material on. “This was a mistake,” you muttered, “I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have called you.”

He blocked your way out with his body, spreading his arms to his side. “Y/N.”

“ _Move_ , Winchester.” When he ignored you, you reached out to slap his arms away only to have him catch your hands – not too rough, just barely touching –and your breath caught in the back of your throat. “Let me go.”

He tilted his head to the side, capturing your gaze. He traced his fingers on the back of your hand. “Talk to me.”

You licked your lips. “Let. Me.  _Go._ ”

He moved one hand up your arm, over your neck, erasing your pulse everywhere he touched, until he cupped your cheek. “No one’s holding you,” he breathed, “Just talk to me, Y/N.”

“I  _can’t._ ” I don’t  _want to._ “I just can’t, Dean. Don’t make me.”

His calm, green eyes searched yours for a moment before he sighed. “Okay.” He pulled you closer to him and you didn’t resist, resting your head on his shoulder. He wrapped his other arm around you and kissed the side of your head. “Then just listen to me.”

You closed your eyes, hooking your arm around his. This was easy, comfortable. “Yes?”

He tried to pull away but you held onto him. He patted your back. “You don’t have to be on your own anymore.”

“Dean…”

“Dad and Sam aren’t somewhere near,” he said, “They left. I told Dad I needed to be on my own for a while.”

“Wait, what?”

“I pulled some crap about being eighteen and free to do as I please. Promised I won’t hunt while I’m away and that I’ll stay within the same state as them.”

You pulled away. “ _Why_?”

“Because I don’t want you to be on your own, Y/N, alright? Not right now, not like this.”

“Your dad must be furious,” you pointed out, “You can’t – what about Sam?”

He shrugged. “He’ll be alright; he’s got Dad.” He rested his hands on your shoulders. “And you’ve got me.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

He snickered, dropping his hands. “Wow, you got so emotional in the past few months,” he said, “Puberty finally get the best of you, Y/N?”

You smiled, rolling your eyes. “I meant physically, you ass.”

He frowned. “Gonna take a lot more than whatever you think you’re capable of to knock me down, sweetheart.”

“Be serious for a second.”

He shrugged. “I dunno what to tell you,” he said, “Decision’s been made, I’m coming with you, wherever you’re going next, and you can’t really scare me off.” He picked up the duffel he’d dropped earlier. “And I already packed you a bag.”

_He really thought ahead._ “You  _did_?”

“Yeah,” he said, “Consider it a Valentine’s gift, or whatever crap you want to call it. Now get some sleep, we leave in the morning.”

—

**2001**

You rested your head on the cold, crisp grass beneath you, tickling the back of your neck. The sky was clear that night – barely any stars, definitely no clouds. You brought the bottle of beer to your lips, chugging down some, hoping that it would by some miracle make you forget the snoring pile of regret lying almost naked inside your car, a few feet away – some guy you picked up at a bar. You should know better than to just do that, especially on Valentine’s Day – or what you liked to call  _Unattached Drifter Christmas._ Except that it wasn’t Christmas, at least not for more than the first ten minutes at most. After, it was just regret and booze.

But lying down here, no barriers between you and the sky reminded you of those couple of weeks you’d spent with Dean Winchester when you were sixteen – free, easy, comfortable. Ha.  _Dean._ You hadn’t seen or heard from that bastard in a long time. Maybe a year or so. But then again you weren’t exactly leaving him any messages either.

_I wonder what he’s u –_

Your phone rang loudly in your pocket. You slid it out and picked it up. “’ello?”

“Y/N?”

“ _Dean_?” Did you summon him or something?

“Hey, where are you? Right now?”

“Pheonix, why?”

“Goddammit.”

“ _Why?”_

“Nothing! Nothing, alright? I was just asking.” He swore under his breath. “I thought I’d see you.”

You frowned and sat up. “Is everything okay?”

He sighed. “No, no, it’s not,” he said, “It’s Sam.”


	2. Love is

Sometimes your job sucked.

Being a hunter meant that you had to be alert the whole time, that included the night-long ride on the bus from Pheonix even though every bone inside of you felt disconnected and every nerve under your skin ached for a break. By the time you’d made it to Dean’s hideout in the diner, you were practically seeing in twos, which could explain why the paper you held in your hand didn’t add up,  _at all._

“This is an acceptance letter?” You flipped it over. “From Stanford? For Sam?”

He sipped on his coffee, flicking his fingers in the air, his eyebrows shooting up –  _obviously._

“That is—”

“A disaster.”

“—amazing.” You handed him the paper back. “Wait, what?  _Why_? It’s one of the most prestigious schools in the country – in the  _world._ ”

He slammed the cup on the table. “Don’t you  _get it_?”

You leaned back in your seat. “No, honestly, I don’t,” you said. It wasn’t the money, the letter said he had a full scholarship. “Enlighten me.”

“I found this – he was  _hiding it_. He wasn’t going to tell anyone until it was actually time for him to leave, Y/N.”

You grimaced. “Well, can you blame him, really?” You ran your hand through your hair. “I mean, I could only imagine how your dad will react when he finds out.”

“Which he won’t.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. He wasn’t seriously suggesting—“You want to talk him out of it?”

His gaze dropped yours, his lids covering his red-rimmed eyes, his mouth set in a hard line. “It’s in his best interest.”

Your tiredness must’ve been playing another trick on your mind because there was no way Dean – the same Dean who’d talked and talked about wanting to get out  _if only it wasn’t for Sammy,_ the same Dean who wanted his brother to be happy and well-cared for even if he failed to do it at times – was actually suggesting that turning down a chance for a normal life, for a  _good_ life was somehow in Sam’s “best interest.” There was no way he could believe that, let alone act on it, especially that his little brother was basically an adult now, and he couldn’t stop him if he tried. If anything, it would destroy  _him_  –  _his_ relationship with his brother, and Sam would end up doing what he wanted anyway.

This was not only a ticket out for Sam, it was a ticket out for  _him._ As soon as Sam leaves, he’ll be able to finally take the step he’d wanted to take years ago. He’ll stand up to his dad and tell him this wasn’t the life he wanted for himself—that he wasn’t interested in carrying on “the family business” any longer. Unless – unless he wanted to? Unless he changed his mind about carrying on?

But he’d never admit it, would he? He’d always blame Sam. He didn’t need an excuse anymore, he was sold, but it wouldn’t be Dean if he full-out admitted, even to himself, that he was doing this out of his own free will. “You selfish son of a bitch.”

“ _Selfish?_ ”

“Why can’t you just let him have what he wants?” you asked, “Why can’t you just accept that—”

He shook his head. “That’s not—”

“—he’s  _not_ your responsibility anymore, Dean! You don’t control him.”

“ _Protect_ him.”

You rolled your eyes. “From what?” You leaned in closer to him at the table. “Education? A couple of beers? College girls?” You scoffed. “ _Please._  Listen to yourself. You just want him to stick around forever because you can’t bear the thought that you actually want this life for yourself, Dean.”

He clenched his jaw. “I thought you of all people would understand.”

“What’s  _that_ supposed to mean?”

“I’m not opposed to the idea of him going to college,” he said quietly, looking down at his cup, tracing his finger along its edge. “I’m opposed to the idea of him  _going,_ period.” You opened your mouth to speak but he held up a finger— _wait._ “Do you have any idea what that would do to us? To me, to  _him_.”

“ _No_.” You reached out across the table and lightly brushed your fingers on the back of his hand. He let go of the cup and sighed, just letting it hover there. You moved your other hand and held his with both, seeing him visibly relax, his shoulders lowering. “What is it? What are you worried about?”

“I don’t –” He rubbed his eyes with his other hand. “I don’t want us to end up like…”

Oh.  _Oh._ “Like us.”

It only took six months of constant fighting and wrecked nerves in your house, figuratively speaking, after you got back to them for everything and everyone to snap. Your mother just up and left, Andy wouldn’t talk for a whole month afterward and your father turned into a completely different person. He was always on the edge, ready to burst at the sight of the smallest argument. He lost his focus on hunts and it wasn’t until he almost died that one time that he decided to retire and take care of Andy instead. That was two years ago, when you were eighteen. He didn’t verbally kick you out, he just made it very obvious that he couldn’t take care of two people, financially or otherwise and that he wasn’t okay with you hunting “as long as you were living under his roof.” On the day you left, all he said was to make sure to call every now and then.

That was what Dean was afraid of – not getting kicked out, but getting torn apart like that. Through every line and every curve, he always took pride in the fact that he had the “most important thing” going for him – his family.

“You know I don’t mean—”

You squeezed his hand. “I know, I know,” you said, “It’s okay. I made my peace with it.” You tried. “But, Dean…”

“Hmm?”

“If it’s going to happen sooner or later, wouldn’t you rather he have what he wants?” He shifted in his seat. “Maybe it’s for the best, maybe you should ease him out instead of avoid it altogether.”

He scrunched his nose. “What if he never comes back, Y/N? What then?”

This was a legit concern, you had to give him that. Sam was the most enthusiastic and determined Winchester to get out of the life – you never knew how determined until today. The kid went above and beyond. “He’ll come back,” you assured him, “Even if he never hunts again, he’s still your brother, and he loves you.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah.”

“ _Hey_.” You pulled on his hand. “C’mon, don’t be that guy.”

He shook his head dismissively, leaning back in his seat and taking his hands with him. “So, uh,” he started, “Where’s your car?”

“Couldn’t drive her all the way here.” You fiddled with the salt container. “I wasn’t that drunk, I don’t think, but I didn’t wanna risk it.”

“Dru—oh.” He smirked. “Get too lonely on Valentine’s Day?”

You rolled your eyes. “Not as lonely as I’d hoped, actually,” you said, “And he wasn’t even that good, you know? I’m starting to see a pattern here.” You smiled. “Guys who are good in bed are most probably not single or free on the fourteenth.”

Dean talked about the women he slept with all the time – every chance he got. It was boyish of him, how much he bragged about that sort of stuff, and sometimes it made you uncomfortable, but you got used to it. So used to it, in fact, that he started to rub off on you a little and you’d tell him about whomever you were dating, but you didn’t think you’d ever told him about a casual encounter. And the way he shifted uncomfortably and his eyes widened confirmed it.

“You were with someone last night?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. Just, y’know, a one-night stand.” You crossed your legs. “More like a ten-minute stand, but whatever.”

“ _Why_?”

You blinked. “Sorry, what?”

His face darkened and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Why – why did you –  _do you –_ is that a regular thing?”

“No? Even if, why do you care? It’s harmless.” The regret aside.

“It’s not  _harmless._  What about – uh – STDs, huh? What if you like someone and then they never call you back because, let’s face it, guys like that never call. They  _say_ they’ll call and that he had a great time and would love to see you again but then come the morning he’s gone and you’ll just be wondering what you did  _wrong_ and then he’ll –”

“Whoa, whoa,” you said, laughing. “Easy there. It’s not – it’s just sex, Dean.”

“It’s never just  _sex_ for you girls.”

“Lovely stereotyping skills.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well don’t.”

“Y/N.”

“Dean.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t like the idea of you just casually hooking up with other guys.”

You raised an amused eyebrow. “ _Other_ guys?” You snickered. “What, are you jealous or something?”

“You’re still drunk, aren’t you?”

—

**2003**

“I’m not  _drunk_.”

“Right.” You snatched the glass from his hand. “I swear, Dean, if you don’t get your shit together, I want a divorce.”

He reached his hand up to loosen his tie. “I hate this suit,” he muttered, “I hate this party. It’s boring. Let’s get out of here.”

You glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention and dragged him to an empty room, switching the lights on and slamming the door. “Dean Winchester, you’re going to get back out there and  _behave_. You are  _not_ going to embarrass me in front of all our friends like that!”

He scoffed. “What friends?” he whined, “Sleazy Bob? The one who’s been undressing you with his eyes all night?”

You almost laughed.  _Almost._ “At least he was  _looking_ at me! When’s the last time you looked at me like that, huh? You—” The heel of your shoe snapped in half and you shrieked, almost falling down if it wasn’t for Dean’s arms catching your waist. “Fuck.”

“You alright?” he asked, failing to hide his amused smile. You grunted and slipped out of your heels. “Told you they were a bit too much.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, picking them up and examining them in your hand. There was no way you were returning those now. “You know, Dean, if only you didn’t spend all our money on hookers, I’d have bought a better pair.”

He rolled his eyes. “C’mon, cut it out,” he said, “We salted the right bones. We’ve been fighting for the past half an hour and nothing showed up.”

You licked your lips. “You sure? I don’t wanna risk it.”

The house you were in had been abandoned for thirty years until five years ago, a wealthy couple decided to buy it for the sole purpose of throwing a Valentine’s Day party every year. Ever since, one couple every year went missing in the middle of the party after they’d been seen fighting and no one found their bodies, except last week, when the preparations for the party were taking place, someone stumbled upon rotten bones in the basement. Which, of course, didn’t stop the stupid sons of bitches from just cleaning out and throwing the party anyway.

You did your research and found out that a couple had killed each other fighting over their marriage thirty-five years ago. Dean was already hanging out in the area, investigating a different case, so you called him and had him come help you dig up and burn their bones but you wanted to make sure you’d found the right ones, and that no one else got hurt so you got your names on the list (Bob  _was_ sleazy) and pretended to be a married couple for the night.

“Sorry to disappoint.” He freed his neck from the tie. “But we’re not getting killed tonight.”

“Hey at least we would’ve died looking pretty awesome.”

“Ha.” He grinned. “Forget about dying, I never thought I’d live to see the day you actually wear a dress.”

You swirled around on the tip of your toes, the short riffles flying around you. “It’s pretty, isn’t it? I’d wear it all the time if it wasn’t the least practical thing ever.”

“I don’t know about that, I mean, there’s at least a whole inch past your hips. You can probably stash a Lego gun pretty easily.”

You twirled your hip and very innocently lifted up the hem of the dress. “I dunno, I can probably fit a knife – hey, let’s try.” You caught his wide eyes with yours and smirked, reaching into his pocket to grab his switchblade, brushing his leg through the fabric as you slipped it out, feeling his muscles tense beneath you. You flipped it open and pressed it to the back of your thigh, tucking it in the edge of your panties and flexed your leg. “See? Fits.” You slipped it out, closed it and examined it in your hand. “Maybe I should get a real holster, though– or tape, tape works, too.” You leaned both hands on his chest. “Mind if I keep it?”

“Huh?”

You snaked your arms around his neck. “Mind if I keep your switchblade?”

“No—no, not at all.” He cleared his throat. “You know we don’t have to keep pretending we’re married…”

“I know.” You rubbed the back of his neck and leaned in until you were close enough to feel his breath hot on your nose. You pressed your lips to his cheek and lingered a second too long. “But it’s fun.”

—

**2005**

Love was such a weird thing.

Somewhere in your mind, at some point, for whatever reason, you just decide that you have feelings for a certain person – that you’re connected to them somehow. Your mind starts calculating your moves and your thoughts with a new margin, a new condition on the side – them. As a result, your actions change. Your loyalties change. You’re only one of many factors to consider when you’re making a decision, even after you spend years not communicating well with the person you decide that you love. That didn’t only apply to romantic love, but all love.

In this case, it was your mother.

You didn’t see her too often after she left all of you, and, granted, for a while, you were angry. You were  _furious._ You thought you hated her for everything she’d done to you, to your whole family. You thought you didn’t care what happened to her or what she was doing with her “new” life, away from you. Then why did it hurt to breathe? Why did you want to curl and shrink and  _drown_  just to kick the thought of her out of your head? Why did your mind replay the last time you talked to her, the time where you called her out on how she “pretended to care” about the wellbeing of you and your brother?

Why did the sight of her tombstone knock every vocal cord out of you?

This was all Dean’s fault. Dean and his stupid, well-meant advice. He was the one who insisted you get back in touch with your family this year when you spoke to him around the end of December. He was the one who told you this silent, burning feud between your family had to end and you should check on your brother and father, see how they were doing, offer them a chance. He’d heard from his dad that Andy wasn’t doing so well, that he dropped out of community college, which you didn’t know he’d gotten into in the first place. And at the time, he made sense. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he’d asked, “Just do it. You’ll feel good afterward.”

You believed him. You believed him and you shouldn’t have.

You could’ve been in some bar right now, or at Ellen’s roadhouse. You could’ve been making bitter jokes about being lonely forever. You could’ve kept on living without this – any of this. Why did he do that?  _Why_? Did he know? About your mom? Did his dad tell him about her death? Was that the real reason why he’d insisted?

You knocked on the cold wood of the motel room you knew he was in. A minute later, you heard someone stumbling their way to the door. “Who is it?”

“Open the door.”

“Y/N?” You heard him fiddle with the lock before he emerged. “What are you doing here? How did you—”

“I drove all night.”

He paused, staring at you. “You drove all – what’s wrong?”

“I listened to you.” You cleared your throat. “I reached out to Andy.”

It took him a moment before realization sank in his face. He knew. He  _knew_ , didn’t he? “Why don’t you come inside?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, “About my mom. Why, Dean?”

“It wasn’t my place to tell. I’m sorry,” he said, “I know I should’ve—”

You clenched your jaw, taking a step back. “Yes, you should’ve,” you said, “I was completely blindsided, I could’ve—”

“You would never have seen your brother if you’d known what happened, Y/N,” he said, “You would’ve avoided him at all costs, and that’s not what you need – I know it’s hard right now, but I wanted you to face it, move on; I—”

“You  _what_?” you snapped, “You know better than me? Because you’re a guy and you’re older and you think you—”

“—I love you.”


	3. Cracks

_“—I love you._ ”

You stared at him, your breath hitched in the back of your throat. You knew what he meant; he wouldn’t have put so much emphasis on it – he wouldn’t have looked like it physically pained him to utter those words – if he didn’t mean it as – as –“What?”

He sighed, pulling the door wide open. “Just come in, will you?”

Silently, you dragged your feet into the room and sat on the edge of his bed, trying not to overanalyze this and just let it play out. See what he had to say. He closed the door and leaned back on it, tapping his fingers. Dean was usually easy to read; maybe it was because you’d known him for so long, but there wasn’t much he could conceal with his face, but this time, you couldn’t translate his stance. “You love me?”

He gave the wood one final tap before he crossed the distance between you and kneeled in front of the bed, taking your hands in his. “I’m sorry, alright?” He rested his forearms on your legs. “About your mom, about everything. I didn’t mean to blindside you, or –”

“You love me?”

He got up and patted your shoulder. “You should get some sleep. You’ve been driving all night.”

He had a point; you were exhausted beyond words, confused – overwhelmed. You needed to clear your head, give yourself some space. Maybe if you slept it off, you’d be able to make sense out of everything that was going on. Maybe. “I’ll – uh – go,” you said, “See if I can find myself a room around here.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s alright,” he said, “You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” You got up and headed for the door. “I’ll get my own room, and we’ll talk in the morning.”

“Will we?”

You sighed and rolled your car keys on your finger before you tossed them to him. “I’m not going anywhere. Not this time. Not until we talk.”

The corners of his lips curled up in a solemn smile. “You read my mind.”

You mirrored his smile, reaching out for the door. “Obviously not well enough.”

As it turns out, finding an empty motel room, regardless of its size, the night of the fourteenth was next to impossible. You knew you could’ve just crashed with Dean, but you didn’t think you should; your head was a mess, to say the least. Knowing he had the keys, and seeing you really weren’t feeling up to picking the lock of your own car, you ended up in the hallway, snuggled up next to Dean’s door, trying to tune out all the voices from the other rooms and just sleep; it was a really crappy motel, and no one was going to notice your presence until the morning anyway.

But every time you closed your eyes, the past couple of days replayed themselves in front of you over and over  _and over._ Your dad’s refusal to look at you while he delivered the news about your mom. Going up to Andy’s room only to find him drunk on his bed, tossing a bottle across the room as soon as he saw you. “ _What are you doing here?_ ” he’d asked, “ _Aren’t you done ruining our lives? No – no, it_ was  _your fault. All of it, Y/N. Every single thing – I wouldn’t have become the way I am if it wasn’t for_ your  _fuck up, she wouldn’t have left if it weren’t for my state and she wouldn’t have died alone because no one had her back on a stupid hunt.”_

He was right, you knew he was.

Your actions – your decisions – blew it all up. It didn’t matter how much you still cared about them, your brother especially: you couldn’t show your face anywhere near them again. Before, no matter how messed up the situation was, there was always a part of you that felt at ease because you knew that if it came down to it, you’d still have your brother at the very least. You’d always have a family. You’d never be  _completely_ alone in this world.

You couldn’t help the sob that echoed through your body. You leaned your head on the wall and brought your knees up to your chest. How could he say he loved you? Was it out of pity? Maybe you were wrong, maybe he just blurted it out to make you feel better, and he didn’t mean anything serious by it. “ _I love you._ ”

_Please._

*

_Warm, so warm._

You were wrapped in something, a blanket maybe, that was  _just_ the right amount of warm and soft. A calming rhythm echoed in your ear and moved under your cheek – a heartbeat, breathing. You pulled your sore lids open and glanced up – when did this happen?

You were still outside Dean’s motel room, except that he wasn’t in there anymore; he was sitting  _underneath_ your sleeping body. You were lying sideways on his lap, your arms wrapped around his chest while his arms rested on your sides, his head hanging on top of yours, both of you sleeping underneath a small, woolen blanket. Did he come out at night, somewhere after you drifted off? “Dean.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You’re awake?”

His chest rumbled beneath you and he brought his hand up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “This really isn’t as comfortable as it looks.”  _Yawn._

“Oh.”

You started to get up but he patted your shoulder. “Didn’t say I didn’t like it. Stay, please.”

“Did I wake you up last night?”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t sleep. Heard you sit outside, thought I’d invite you in but I know you would’ve knocked if you wanted to.”

You craned your head to look at him. “Why’d you come out, then?”

He paused. “It was cold and I thought I heard you – is this bothering you? I’m sorry, I –”

“Shush.” You kissed the collar of his t-shirt. “You know I love your hugs. Always have.”

He smirked. “Yeah?”

 _Yeah._ Throughout the years, no matter what was going on or how bad it was for either of you, Dean gave the best hugs. You weren’t a tiny girl, that was next to impossible with your job, but somehow, whenever he hugged you, he was  _everywhere._ It was easy, comfortable,  _safe._ Just like talking to him, hunting with him – being around him in general. Whenever you pictured yourself in a happy place, he was always there somewhere. Maybe you played it down at some points, told yourself it was pointless to have that sort of thoughts about your best friend, the guy who’d been there your entire life because, even if you didn’t think it was  _possible,_ you had the same standard fear – what if it became awkward between you? What if you lost him over a stupid feeling?

“You love me?”

“I love your hugs.”

“Dean.”

“Of course I do,” he said, his green eyes growing soft, “ _Of course_ I do, Y/N. And—” He licked his lips “—I know it’s a bad—”

You untangled your arm and brought it up, lacing your fingers in his short hair, arching your back up. He stopped talking – stopped  _breathing –_ and his eyes met yours, flickering to your parted lips. You didn’t talk, you  _couldn’t_ talk; maybe it was the years of teasing, pushing and pulling. Maybe it was that he was here, right now, going out of his way to comfort you – you never asked why he was here. Was he just stopping by? Did he have a case around here? Whatever it was, you knew he put it on hold for you.  _You._

The person he, apparently, loved. The person who, definitely, loved him.

You pressed your lips to his, shivers running down your spine, and he responded immediately, like he’d been practicing his whole life. He brought his hand up to cup your cheek and returned the kiss, his lips moving, slowly, deliberately, against yours. There was no rush, no urgency. Just you and him, breathing, melting into each other, every inch of your bodies touching; your chest pressed against him, his other hand rubbing your waist, squeezing it every time your tongue touched his.

“Y/N.”

You pulled away. “Hm?”

“You don’t have to…” He cleared his throat. “Nothing will change if you just – take a breath, try to –”

“I love you, too, Dean,” you breathed, “I’m a mess, and I may not show it much, but if there’s one thing I know for sure it’s how I feel about you.”

He grinned and kissed the top of your head. “You’re my mess now.”

“Ugh, enough with the cheesiness.” You scrunched your nose. “You’d think you were a romantic or something.”

—

**2006**

“How romantic.”

“ _Dean_?” Your breath echoed in your ears and you dropped the bat in your hand on the floor of your new temporary living room. You rushed to the switch and turned on the lights. He was rubbing his shoulder where you’d hit him just a minute before. “You scared the shit out of me. I didn’t know you were coming over!”

He picked up a bag he’d dropped. “Surprise!”

You crossed the distance between you and threw your arms around him. “I’m sorry.” You slid your hand beneath his shirt, over his shoulder. “Does it hurt?”

He sighed dramatically. “I’ll  _probably_ survive.” He smiled and pecked your lips. “How have  _you_  been surviving without me?”

You shrugged, shifting your weight on one foot, twirling the other mindlessly. “Oh, you know,” you said, rolling your eyes, “Just barely hanging.”

“Well.” He slid his hands down your waist, over your ass and onto the back of your thighs, lifting you up. You jumped a little and wrapped your legs around his waist, smiling down at him. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” He turned you around and pressed your back against the wall. You ran your hands through his hair. “How have you been? How’s Sam?”

A few months ago, John Winchester went missing, leaving nothing but a trail of hunts for his boys. You helped them out on a few cases, but last December, you and Dean talked and decided it was for the best that you two parted ways for a little while, just physically at least. He needed his time with Sam, and he needed to focus on finding his father without any “distractions.” He stuck around until you found a small, abandoned house and made it your base. You talked on the phone every other day and, sure, you both wished you could be around each other a lot more often but you got your own –small—cases around the area and it was okay for a temporary arrangement.

“We’re fine,” he said, “He says hi, by the way.”

“Where is he?”

He groaned. “I dunno, some motel?” He pressed a kiss to your neck. “I told him I needed a couple of days for myself. It’s not like we’re reaching anything right now anyway.”

You smiled, tightening your legs around him. “You’re all mine for a while, then?”

He chuckled against your skin. “All yours,” he said, “Happy anniversary.”

“Happy anniversary,” you breathed. He traced his lips up your neck and along your jaw, one of his hands squeezing your –  _ah –_ leg. “Sure you don’t want dinner first?”

He stopped. “Depends,” he said, “What do you have?”

“Believe it or not,” you said, “Burgers and pie.”

“Are you serious?”

“I have them packed,” you explained, “I was going to call you in the morning, see where you were and, well—” You laughed “—surprise  _you_.”

He stepped back and gently set you down. “I’ve never loved you more,” he said and reached for your hand, dragging you to the kitchen. “Where are they – wait.” He turned around and got the bag he’d had earlier. “This is perfect.”

“What is this?”

“Uh, a microwave,” he said, “I know, not the most romantic thing ever. But you just complained the other day about how inconvenient the oven is here because of the piping and whatnot—where do I plug it?”

You blinked. “…in the kitchen.”

“Right,” he said, moving towards the kitchen with the device in hand. “I just thought this could help, you know?” He set it on the counter and reached out to plug it. “That way you wouldn’t have to eat rabbit food all the time.”

“Dean…”

He turned it on and looked around for the food. “I swear, I  _swear_ , this isn’t my idea of a first anniversary present. I have something else in mind.”

“ _Dean._ ”

“Where’s the food? Oh there it is – what?”

You licked your lips and crossed your arm over your chest. “How long?”

He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

You cleared your throat. “How long are you expecting me to stay here?” you asked, “You said it would only be a couple of months…”

He grimaced. “Just a little while longer,” he said, “Until we find Dad. I just – you know why we can’t be on the move together right now. Sam, he’s…”

 _A mess._ “I know,” you said, “And I respect that – I respect your space. But I can’t just stay here until further notice, you know?”

“Why not?”

You raised your eyebrows. “Because this isn’t who I am, Dean,” you said, “I’ve never settled in one place more than a couple of weeks, you know that. Even with my job at the bar, I don’t think I can stay here much longer.”

“Y/N.” He unwrapped the food and put it in a glass plate. “You know I can’t be out there, fighting my own battles knowing you’re on the road or on some hunt somewhere else. I don’t know what could happen – to me, to you…”

“How do you think I’ve felt every day since I moved here?” You leaned back on the kitchen table. “There isn’t one moment when I’m not worried about you – or Sam for that matter. I need a distraction.”

He sighed. “If this is about wanting a distraction just – I dunno – take on knitting or something.”

“Be serious.”

“I am!” He opened the microwave to check on the food and closed it again, resetting the timer. “Look, we talked about this,” he said, “If we’re going to be together, we need to adjust to each other’s wishes and I—”

“I know what you want, Dean.” You fiddled with the hem of your shirt. “But what about what I want?”

The microwave beeped and he got the burgers out. “Let’s just drop it for the night, okay? I promise we’ll talk about this later.”

You nodded, plastering a smile on your face and sitting next to him, even though you knew you were just postponing the inevitable. But you might as well enjoy your anniversary with him; it looked like it was going to be one of a kind anyway.

—

**2007**

Did anniversaries count if you hadn’t seen your partner for the first half of the year?

Did they count if the first you saw of him after the last anniversary was when his brother called and told you he was dying from a car crash? Did they count if you’d been only shadowing him from afar, always around but never really together? Did they count if he wouldn’t let anyone, not even you, near him –  _really_ near him – after his father’s death? Did they count if he’d spent half of the time yelling and telling you that you were better off without him, that he should’ve died that day anyway?

Did they?

You didn’t know. You didn’t care. It was never about labels with Dean, especially not recently. It was just you and him – that simple and that complicated. You still loved him – how could you not? And he still loved you, in a way, you were sure. You had faith in him – in both of you. Even when he told you he’d rather just be alone on the road with his brother, you told yourself it was only temporary, that it didn’t mean anything. That he was still grieving, drowning in guilt after the news of his father’s deal with Yellow Eyes and how he was in hell just so Dean would survive.

So you stayed with Bobby. You helped him out with research and whatnot, and you got to stay somewhere solid so if anything happened, you were there and whenever Dean was ready, he could come back. “The boys called.”

You looked up from the book in your hands. “They did? Is everything okay?”

Bobby shrugged. “They’re fighting like an old married couple, said it was urgent. You wanna tag along?”

You shook your head. Not like this, not uninvited and definitely not on your supposed anniversary. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

The old hunter sighed. “You know he’ll come around, right?” he said, “His old man meant the world to him, you know that.”

You nodded. “I do, I do,” you said, “And I’m fine, don’t worry about me. Say hi for me.” You pulled your most enthusiastic smile. “If you need anything, I’m a call away.”

He gathered his stuff and left, tossing you the house keys on his way out. You spent the rest of the morning organizing books and pulling related articles from the internet to use as references later on. You were about to get up and go out to get some food when you heard a noise behind you. You slipped out your gun and turned around only to find a man standing there, with his arms raised up.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Getting straight to the point. I love it,” he said, “They call me the trickster.”


	4. Distances

Dean wasn’t good with endings.

He didn’t know why, but he was never really able to draw a line and say, “That’s it. That’s where I stop.” Whether it was hunting, back when his old man was alive and he might’ve had this option, alcohol – if Sam wasn’t there the other night his tombstone might’ve read Purple Nurple Poisoning –or girls. He didn’t think he ever  _really_ broke up with someone, he just disappeared and never called back. It wasn’t like he ever intended on getting back with any of them at any point, but breaking up, even when there was never really an official “getting together” seemed so brutal, so final. It was the opposite with Y/N, though. He had every intention – or rather every  _wish_ – to get back with her. Really, fully back together with her.

Sometime. At some point. Not now.

He wasn’t stupid, he knew he was pushing her away, but it wasn’t entirely his fault either. She was dealing with him with extreme caution all the time, as if he might implode. She wasn’t as  _free_ around him as she used to be; he missed being her go-to guy. He missed the way she looked up to him, the way she trusted his decisions – the way she was his  _partner._ His equal. Now? Now she just played along. He could see it in her eyes, in her attitude, how she disagreed most of the time but never really expressed it around him. She’d tell Sam, or Bobby, but not him.

He couldn’t handle that sort of stress, that sort of  _tension_ , anymore.

He wasn’t exactly comfortable with the new arrangement where she stayed back with Bobby and they were on the road hunting, but it was better than nothing. That way, he didn’t have to think about her too much; she was there, wasn’t she? At the end of the day – at the end of the  _month –_  he’d still see her. She’d still smile at him, forced as it felt. He’d still hold her and pretend everything was okay, that they still loved each other like they did the day they decided to date for the first time.

That exact same day, two years ago.

If you’d asked him, back then, what he’d be doing on that day, given they were still –technically-together, he wouldn’t have guessed that he’d be standing in the campus of some college, in front of a building where a trickster dressed as a janitor hid, preparing to take him out, like he was right now. He’d just “fought” with Sam and was supposed to stay put until 8PM, when he’d go in and Sam and Bobby would follow shortly after, in attempt to outsmart the demigod. The demigod who, hopefully, couldn’t read minds.

It was cold out. Students were starting to disappear, each into their dorms or apartments or whatever, he assumed. He sat down on the damp, stone stairs and got out his phone, plugging in his earphones and turning the radio on. Hey, if he was going to spend a couple of hours alone with nothing to do, he might as well waste a little time.

“What are you listening to?”

He jumped up, snatching his earphones out, his mouth dropping.  _How –_ “When did you – what the hell?”

In front of him, Y/N stood with a wide, unfamiliar grin on her face, playfully twirling the edge of her light blue, formal  _dress_ from that one time at the haunted house  _years_ ago. She looked so happy, so…young. Like the girl he’d first fallen in love with. The one who didn’t overthink stuff. The one who wasn’t burdened with her tragedies or his. The one who was there during the simpler times of his life. The one he promised himself he’d never lose, but lost anyway.

She threw her arms around his neck, making him freeze on spot. “I thought I’d surprise you,” she said, “It  _is_ our anniversary, isn’t it?”

He raised his eyebrows, resting his hands on her waist out of habit. “You drove all the way here, without telling anyone,” he said, “Wore a  _dress_ , showed up in the middle of a  _hunt_ and—”

It hit him.

She wasn’t real. She wasn’t really Y/N. She was a trick, just like the other girl, and the aliens, and the alligator. That was low, even for that trickster. “And what?”

“You’re not real.”

She laughed. “I’m  _very_ real,” she said, pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw. He took a step back, pushing her away. “What, what is it?” she asked, “Is it the dress? I thought you liked it.”

“Oh, I love the dress.” He scoffed, “Trust me, I  _do._ ”

“Then what is it?” she asked, “Is this a bad time? Sam told me you still had a couple of hours here.”

“What?”

If she wasn’t real, she wouldn’t have had any contact with Sam, would she? The trickster wouldn’t risk that kind of exposure, that kind of suspicion. And even if she did, Sam would see right through her and would give him a heads’ up, right? He wouldn’t just tell her their plan and mess this whole thing up. He was smarter than that.

She leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I know about your plan.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She rolled her eyes. “You think I’m a trick, don’t you?” She sighed. “Fair enough; I know I haven’t been myself lately –” She cleared her throat. “Poughkeepsie.”

There was no way the trickster would know about  _Poughkeepsie_. Maybe Y/N. Maybe the dress, but not that word. Over the years, the one thing that has proven to work was this password – with shape-shifters, with demons, with everything, regardless of their power. They’d managed to get it past them, to only bring it up when it was serious and they needed it. But then again, if he knew about the dress, and about Y/N, maybe he knew about Poughkeepsie.

If he did, and he knew about their plan, wouldn’t he have fled though?

Wouldn’t he have left, knowing they were out for him? And if he leaves, his range of power leaves with him. It made no sense that Y/N, who knew about the plan, was a trick. Her knowing and her being a trick were, at that point, probably mutually exclusive. Then, if she  _wasn’t_ a trick, was she really there to surprise him? Was it really her, standing in front of him right now? Did the last couple of months away from him change her, somehow? Did she want to start over, win him back or something?

It didn’t matter. None of that mattered; she was here now and she was, most probably, real.

“Don’t overthink this,” she breathed, trailing her hands on his t-shirt, under his jacket. “We’ve both been overthinking everything lately,” she said, “Look where that got us.”

He clenched his jaw, licking his lips. “Y/N, I –”

“You have time,” she whispered, cupping his cheeks and pressing her soft, full lips to his and he almost caved right there and then.  _It’s been so long._ He caught her bottom lip between his and sucked on it, tilting his head to the side, snaking his arms around her, brushing the soft fabric with the tips of his fingers. Her hands moved to knead his hair, making him sigh into her mouth. She grinned against him and parted her lips, moaning as his hands made it past the small of her back and –

“Y/N –”  _Kiss_ “—hey,  _hey—_ ”  _Moan “—_ stop, I have to—”

She pulled away, gazing up at him through her lashes.  _God,_ she looked  _so young._ “You have to what?”

He cleared his throat. “The – the trickster, the hunt…”

“ _C’mon_ , Dean,” she whined, “How long has it been?”

The pounding of his heart in his chest and how damn uncomfortable his pants were becoming right now were enough proof –“Too long,” he said, “I know, but—”

“But  _what?_ ” She kissed his neck. “It’s our anniversary, we’re here, together,” she argued, “We can go to your car, or _mine_ …” she trailed off, “We’ll be back before you know it.”

He couldn’t even remember the last time she was  _like this_ around him. Sure, they’d had sex more times than he could count after they “reconnected” after his accident, but it was never like  _this._ Urgent, spontaneous, simple.  It was always heavy, like they were communicating their stress through it rather than relieving it. Her presence, the slight tint of her cheeks, extending all the way to her ears – everything about her right now was a breath of fresh air, and he didn’t know how long that would last, if she’d stay like this from now on or if the magic would disappear by midnight, like some sort of twisted fairy tale. But, but –“I’m supposed to be watching the door,” he said, “Make sure he doesn’t run.”

“C’mon,” she said, “You really think a demigod has to go through the door if he wanted to leave? Hell, he could leave through the back door if he wanted to.”

 _Bobby’s watching the back door._ “Y/N—”

“Don’t make excuses, Dean,” she said, “Either you want this, or you don’t.” She fiddled with the collar of his shirt. “If you don’t, I’ll just leave, go back to Sioux Falls.”

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” he pleaded, “We can still…you know,  _after._  We’ll stay another night in the motel, all by ourselves – send Sam somewhere far, far away,” he said, “Just let me—”

She shook her head. “It’s now or never, Dean,” she said, “I’m tired of waiting around, of just—”

Why did she have to make this so difficult? He wanted her, she  _knew_ he wanted her and she knew he wasn’t going anywhere, and he wasn’t dismissing her out of anything but the simple fact that he needed to be here, right now. That it was his job, and she showed up out of nowhere, expecting him to drop everything and just –“Please, Y/N—”

“Now or never.”

 _Fuck it._ He gripped the back of her neck, interlacing his fingers in her hair and turned around, slamming her back against the stone fence. She wrapped her legs around him, like she always did, and smiled.

—

“Dean! DEAN! What the hell?”

Dean groaned, trying to ignore the pounding against his skull. Beneath him, on the backseat of the Impala, Y/N twitched sleepily, still fully dressed. To some extent. He’d lost his jacket and his plaid shirt somewhere in the process, he couldn’t remember when exactly. The last thing he remembered was leaving his watch-site and heading to the car. Everything after that was a blur.

“Dean!” Sam called again, knocking on the window.

Dean sat up, rubbing his eyes. What happened? What time was it? He rolled down the window. “Sam?”

“Where the hell were you?” Sam asked, “We went in there and you were nowhere to be found! We thought he did something to you, your phone was out of service and—” He paused, looking past him. “Is that Y/N? What’s she…”

“Y/N’s here?” Bobby asked from behind him.

“What do you mean  _is that Y/N_ , she spoke to you!” Dean said, pulling his jacket over her and stepping out of the car. “What happened? Did you take him out?”

Sam sighed. “We did. Barely,” he said, “She didn’t speak to me; Bobby told me – we thought she was in Sioux Falls.”

Fuck.  _Fuck._ So she  _was_ a trick. “When he died, did his – uh – creations –”

“They’re gone, all gone,” Bobby said, “How did she even get in here? Her car’s busted.”

He glanced back at the car to make sure she was still there, breathing,  _her._ If she wasn’t a trick, then why did she lie about speaking to Sam? How did she even know how to find him, or what his plan was? Hell, how did she even know they were after a trickster? Something didn’t add up.

“Is that why you weren’t there, Dean?” Sam asked, exasperated. “She showed up, and you dropped everything to—”

Dean held a hand up to him –he was confused as it was already—and turned around the car, opening the door from her side. He kneeled on the ground and patted her hair gently. “Y/N,” he called, “Hey, Y/N.”

“Mm?” She rubbed her eyes and sat up, leaning on her elbow. “Dean, what – oh fuck.”

“Oh fuck what?”

She buried her face in her hands. “The trickster,” she said, “I wasn’t –” She took a deep breath. “He brought me here. He dressed me up in…this,” she explained, “And – aw, man – he –”

“He what?”

“He made me do…this…everything I did. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—he said if I didn’t do it, so he could escape, you’d end up dying.”

He blinked. “You didn’t want…”

“I  _did._ I just didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that.And we didn’t do anything anyway,” she assured him, “We were out as soon as we made it to the car.  _Part of the spell_ , he said.”

 _What about everything_ before _?_ He felt like he was going to throw up. He should’ve known. The second she showed up there, the second she –“I’m so sorry,” he said, “I’m – you have no idea how much – I didn’t know –”

She shook her head. “It’s okay, it’s alright, I know,” she said, “I don’t blame you and, hey—” She shrugged “—I told you, I wanted to make out with you, it’s alright.”

“Y/N, I—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dean,” she said, “Listen, he left a note with me. For you.”

_Distractions can be very dangerous, don’t you agree?_

—

**2009**

_What’s life without a little distraction?_

Two years. It had been two whole years since you last saw Dean Winchester, and months before you last spoke to him. When he called, that day, part of you got angry – how  _dare_ he? After all that time, after everything you went through – after losing  _everything_ because you couldn’t cross paths anymore. Another part of you ached, knowing that even though you’d done every trick in the book to try to get over him and move on, you never really did.  _Fall in love with your best friend,_ they said.  _It’s easier,_ they said.

But then he told you why he was calling – about his deal, about his time being up in less than a day, everything, and both parts went numb.

You’d been numb ever since; the next day, Bobby left you a text. That was it, that was everything you had that was remotely related to him – a fucking text telling you that they couldn’t dodge the deal and the coordinates of where he was buried –  _buried –_ in case you wanted to visit. If the death of your estranged, distant mother shook your very core, Dean’s death obliterated you. There was nothing and no-one to pick you up anymore. No-one you could go to – no family, no  _him._ You were truly alone in this world, and you couldn’t even find comfort in the thought that he was in a better place. You knew  _exactly_ where he was and you knew he was far from peaceful. You knew exactly where he was and you couldn’t do jack-squat about it.

You could just go through every day and hope the next you wouldn’t remember.

Some days, you succeeded. You distracted yourself – alcohol, hunting, sex, mindless TV, you name it. But other days, like today, the fourteenth, you couldn’t drown yourself in anything, hide from your own thoughts. Even before this was your anniversary, this day belonged to you – both of you – in one way or the other. This wasn’t just a day you used to spend with your lover, this was a day you spent with your best friend, your companion, your partner, and no amount of whiskey could wipe that away.

“I need another double.”

“You really don’t,” the bartender said, yanking the glass from in front of you and wiping the wood of the bar. “Listen, lady, I know it’s Valentine’s Day, and it’s sad – I get it, but you’re going to end up in a hospital if you don’t stop.”

You narrowed your eyes at him and reached across the bar to grab a fistful of his shirt. “You have  _no idea_ what you’re talking about,” you growled, “Just get me the damn whiskey.”

“Hey!” someone called from a distance.

“I don’t want to have to call security,” the bartender said calmly, “But if you don’t step back—”

You slid your gun out of its holster with your other hand. “Yes?”

“ _Hey_  – cut it out, calm down.”

The bartender stared, wide-eyed, at the barrel pressed to his chest. People were starting to gather, making noises but never really approaching. No one really wanted to mess with the drunk woman who had a gun. Smart. “P-please d-don’t—”

“ _Get me the damn whiskey_.”

“Hey.” A hand was pressed to your back. “Y/N, take it easy and  _drop the gun_ , alright? It’s okay.”

_Dean?_


	5. Strings

You were used to the impossible.

What others called nightmares, you called Sunday morning – that was just the natural byproduct of a life drenched in hunting and coated in stellar luck. Maybe your heart still pounded in your chest every time you spotted a demon. Maybe you had to white-knuckle your machete as you swung it across that vampire’s neck to keep yourself from shaking. Maybe you still shied from the mirror every time your scars were visible. Maybe your body wasn’t used to it. But your head was.

Right now, though? Right now you couldn’t gather a coherent thought.

You let go of the bartender’s shirt, feeling the heat leave your limbs, turning your head to confirm your suspicion. It _was_ Dean. It looked like Dean. It  _felt_ like Dean. It smelled like Dean. It – “Drop your gun, Y/N.”

Slowly, refusing to blink, you lowered your gun from the bartender’s chest, earning a sigh of relief. Dean smiled at you –a small, restrained smile—and reached out to take your pistol into his hand carefully but you wouldn’t let him. You had to be seeing this, this couldn’t be him – there was  _no way_ it could’ve been Dean. It could be a shape-shifter, or a demon. Hell, it could be your own mind playing games on you.

In a distance, you heard the bartender call security and you knew you had to get out of here. You slammed some cash on the bar, grabbed Dean’s sleeve and dragged him out of the front door and into the nearest alley, the cold breeze hitting you. He stopped you, reaching to grab your other arm and turn you around. “What were you _thinking_?” he asked, “What if your finger slipped and you actually shot him?”

Without any warning, you balled your fist and flung it across his jaw, sending him stumbling back for a second – just enough to grab his arm, turn him around and shove him against the wall. He grunted and his breath quickened, but didn’t resist. “What are you?”

“Y/N—”

“I don’t have the time or the energy—” You swallowed the dryness in your mouth “—to check what kind of creature you are—” You slid the angel blade you had tucked in your jacket out and pressed its pointy end to the middle of his back “—You have one minute. Tell me what you are and why you’re following me—”  _Today of all days_ “—and maybe, _maybe_ I’ll spare you.”

“I’m Dean, Y/N, I  _swear._ ” He took a deep breath. “You can do whatever tests you want – I’m  _me_.”

You pressed him harder against the wall. “Dean’s dead _._ ”

He hissed, droplets of blood dripping down his chin. “I got out of hell a couple of months ago.”

“How stupid do you think I am?” you asked, moving the blade to his neck. “I’ll only ask this one more time: what are you and what do you want from me?”

“I—” His eyes caught the weapon in your hand. “Is that an angel blade?” He took a shaky breath. “So you know about angels? How they’re everywhere all of a sudden, right?” Where was he going with this? You didn’t reply, only tightened your grip around his arm, making him wince. “An angel – Castiel – he got me out of hell.”

You wanted to believe him, but the more you did, the less his words seemed true. Things like that don’t just happen, especially not to people like you and Dean. There was no way he could be out and  _alive_  without a heavy price. “Now why would he do that?”

He exhaled sharply. “They need my help trying to stop Lilith from breaking the sixty-six seals to free Lucifer,” he answered, “It’s  _me_ and I’m here and I know it’s scary and freaky as hell,  _trust me,_ I do.” He gulped. “And if I knew you didn’t know, I would’ve called first, but—”

You raised his arm up and pressed your body on his back. “Let’s say it’s true – you’re ‘Dean’ and you’re real and whatever fucked up story you’re trying to sell here,” you started, “How would I know you’re back, huh?”

“I dunno,” he said, “ _Everybody_ knows! Angels, demons,  _hunters –_ I haven’t exactly been hiding, unlike  _someone._ ”

So  _that’s_ what that was about. There was only one person who would be concerned about your hiding – Uriel. After all, he was the one you’d been “hiding” from; you’d gotten an Enochian tattoo and given up hunting – the one thing that was keeping you together. But that wasn’t enough, was it? He had to ruin everything,  _again._ How  _dare_ he? How dare he show up here,  _now,_ looking like Dean? Did he think he could trap you like that? That he could confuse you enough to take you again?

_Think again, buddy._

You loosened your grip on him and withdrew your weapon. If you were going to stab him with his own blade, you might as well see his smug little face while you did it. He stayed still for a moment, glancing back at you, testing waters. When you took a small step back, his stance relaxed and he turned around. You rolled the blade in your hand and gripped it tight, preparing to lift your arm up and stab him when his eyes caught yours and his bloodied lips spread into the softest smile. “We good?”

That was all it took –just one smile on this face and two words—to send a flicker of doubt through your heart.  _No – focus._ You closed the distance between you, raised your elbow up and twisted the collar of his t-shirt in your hand. He frowned, glancing down at you with wide eyes,  _still not resisting._ Why wasn’t he resisting? Why wasn’t he trying to block you? Why wasn’t he knocking you out with his angel mojo?

In one swift moment, you swept the edge of the blade across his collarbone. “Son of a bitch!”

No glowing – white or orange. No resistance. No frantic change of eye color or drawing of fangs, or, or, or—

“Dean?”

He took a couple of steps back, pressing his t-shirt to his wound. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, you psycho!”

“I—” Dean. This was  _Dean._ Standing right in front of you. Talking. Breathing. Human. “I—” You tried to move but every joint in your body was quivering. “You were dead?” It came out like a question.

He licked his lips, grimacing and checking on his cut to make sure it wasn’t bleeding anymore. “I came back,” he repeated, “And I tried to look for you,  _everywhere._ I tried to call you. I tried to look for you where you usually hung out. I tried to find you through the police database once or twice –hell, I tried to get an angel to find you, but you vanished.”

Your vision blurred and you had to lean a hand on the wall for support. “I—”  _Deep breath_ “—Uriel, he—”

He reached out his hand and gently, carefully took your blade from you and tossed it on the ground, raising his hands –  _I won’t hurt you._ “What did he do?”

You blinked. “Uh—” You really needed to sit down. “—Three months ago, he found me – I changed my numbers after you – well –”

He nodded understandingly. “Okay, then what?” he asked, “What did he do, Y/N?”

You couldn’t tell him – you didn’t  _want to._ It was enough that he found you not only on your way to drowning the last brain cell you had in hard liquor, but also two seconds away from blowing some random bartender’s brains for no good reason – no reason at all. He couldn’t know how much of a mess you were right now; he couldn’t know that, despite being able to run from Uriel and his crew  _eventually_ , your guard was still down enough for him to take you in the first place. You never knew why exactly he did that, something about the “righteous man” and how there “shouldn’t be any obstacles” – either way, it didn’t matter; you’d lost your edge. You weren’t the same Y/N he knew and was probably looking for.

You cleared your throat and dropped your hand, taking a moment to regain balance. “Does it still bleed?”

“What?”

“Your wound,” you explained, “Does it still bleed? We should probably—”

He shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said, “It’s fine, I’ll disinfect it when I have the chance. Y/N—”

This was too much. The sight of him, what happened at the bar, what you  _drank_ at the bar, the memory of what happened with Uriel, your heartbeat, the freezing, crisp air, the loud beeping from the parking lot, the fucking street lights – everything was taking a toll on you. You hated this – this feeling of complete vulnerability, heat crawling out of your body, tears welling in your eyes. This wasn’t you. For fuck’s sake, when did you become this weak?

“H-how—” You swallowed hard.  _Keep it together._  “How’d you find me?”

“Your new phone, your brother –  _whoa,_ whoa—” He caught you mid-way to the ground and pulled you up. “Hey, take it easy.”

“M’fine.”

“Obviously.” He swung your arm over his shoulder and picked you up like it was the most normal thing in the world. You wanted to protest, to tell him you didn’t need picking up and walk on your own, but the urge to just let go was too strong, too persistent. You knew you shouldn’t be doing this, that you had no right to  _be_ like this when  _he_ was the one who’d gone to hell and back, literally. He was the one who was actually, really wounded, not just disoriented or overwhelmed or, or, or—

You were supposed to be the one picking him up. Not the other way around.

“Did you drive here?” You nodded. “Okay, we’ll take my car now, and I’ll come back in the morning to get yours, alright?”

You smiled faintly into his chest. “Afraid your baby will catch a cold?”

“Afraid she’ll leave,” he said, walking towards the Impala, “Before I have a chance to get her back.”

*

One sandwich, two coffees and three hours later, you were sitting on Dean’s bed, in his motel room, your legs crossed, watching as he gathered his weapons into his bag. You were still staring at him in awe, trying to wrap your head around the whole thing. The zipper squeaked in his hand and he turned to you. “You’re awfully silent.”

You shrugged. “I don’t know what to say,” you admitted, “Welcome back? What do the angels have over your head?” You hid your hands under your legs. “Are you okay?”

He crossed his arms, leaning back on the table. “I’ve been better.”

“Anything I can do?”

He sighed. “Stop, will you?” He shifted on his legs. “All the way here, all you did was ask me if I was okay, if Sam was okay…”

You blinked. “So?”

“So you’re avoiding the subject,” he said, “What the hell happened to you while I was gone? Why’d you go into hiding?”

“Why were you looking for me?”

He uncrossed his arms. “What kind of question is that?” he asked, “I – You’re –”

“I’m what?” you asked calmly, “What am I to you, Dean? You called me the day before – before you—” You cleared your throat “—and you said some shit about missing me and wishing it wasn’t like this, but—”

“I meant every word—”

“—you didn’t even  _try_ to reach out the whole  _year_ you were practically a dead man walking!”

“I would’ve if—”

“You said that you wanted me—that you’d always loved me,” you started, “But that day with the trickster hunt you told me I was a distraction.” You stood up. “No, no—you said  _you’re my weakness –_ the hell was that?”

“Of course you’re my weakness!” Your eyebrows shot up. “You’ve always been my weakness, Y/N, from  _day one,”_ he said, “The moment I started having feelings for you – God, I don’t even know when that was – when I was fifteen maybe? The  _moment_ that happened you became my weakness –right up there with Sam.” He slammed his hand on the bag. “Even when we drifted apart – that time after my dad died, the only thing that kept me sane was knowing you were out there, in arm’s reach, that you were safe and if anything bad happened, I’d still know.”

You crossed your arms. “So you decided we should never see each other again.  _That_ makes sense,” you said, “Look, I get it, alright? I was a burden. I was shadowing you, this whole time after the accident even though we weren’t really together and you know it,” you said, “I was weighing you down – you didn’t need me anymore, not in that way, yet I didn’t take a hint and it’s okay, it’s over.” Admitting it sent a wave of embarrassment through your body but this speech was long,  _long_ overdue. “That day with the trickster  _I_  tricked you—” You sighed “—I messed up, so—”

“What the—”

“— _why_ did you look for me again now?”

“You know what? That’s enough.” He leaned forward and pulled you by your wrist to him so you were inches apart. “You don’t get to do that – you don’t get to blame yourself for the shit I’ve put you through—” He brushed your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. “You don’t get to warp what happened to fit your self-pity.” He cupped your cheek, moving his hand to the back of your neck. “Look at me.”

You raised your eyes to meet his. “Why did you look for me, Dean?”

“Because you’re my weakness,” he said, “Because you’re my strength. Because I wouldn’t have stood for thirty years in hell if it weren’t for the thought of you out there. Because I’m done trying to run away from the fact that I love you – that I’ll always love you, whether I show it or not – and I’m done deciding for you.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Y/N,” he started, “Will you give me another chance?”

—

**2013**

“No.”

“What?”

“I want my own room, thank you very much,” you said, picking up your duffel bag from the floor of Dean’s bedroom at the newfound bunker in Kansas. He’d been spending the past week prepping the whole place while you and Sam crashed in a motel and could only  _try_ to get him to do as much as answer the phone for three whole minutes, let alone actually let you help.

“What?  _Why_?” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “We always stay in the same room!”

“Well, yeah.” You shrugged. “But I want somewhere to put my stuff and, I dunno,” you said, smiling, “Where else will I go when I can’t stand you?”

“I was thinking the bed.” He shrugged. “Angry sex is a very healthy way to communicate, you know?”

You rolled your eyes. “C’mon, I’m serious.”

“You just want to play house.”

Your mouth dropped. “ _That’s all what you’ve been doing for the past week._ ”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Fine,” he said, “You can have a  _spare_ room, for your one square foot of stuff,” he said, “But you don’t get memory foam there.”

You sighed dramatically. “Oh how will I live without a mattress that remembers the shape of my ass?” You snickered. “Relax. I don’t even need a bed in there. Maybe a desk or something.”

“Hmm.” He lay down on the bed. “Alright. As long as it’s, say, waist-length at least.”

You laughed, dropping the bag and crossing the distance between you, hopping up to straddle him, your knees denting his precious memory foam. “Why do you have—” You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his nose “—to make everything about sex?”

“I wasn’t talking about sex,” he said, barely containing his amusement. “You’re the one who can’t get her mind out of the gutter.”

“Oh, really?”

He nodded, snaking his hand underneath your shirt and pulling it up. “Yeah,” he said, “I don’t know why you think I’m such a perv—” You lifted your arms up and he tossed your shirt away. “—you’re obviously the perv in this relationship.”

“ _Obviously_.”

“And, you  _know_ —”

“Guys!”

You sighed. “Not now, Sammy!” Dean called, “Don’t—”

Too late; Sam had already walked into the room. “Oh –  _oh –_ sorry, but, uh, Kevin called. He wants us to come over ASAP.”


	6. Bonds

Love wasn’t blind.

Exhibit A: you loved Dean Winchester, with everything you got, in all the ways you knew. He was your brother when you were seven and you shared kitchen duty. He was your friend when you were eleven and you  _slayed_ him in Mortal Kombat. He was your comrade when you were fourteen and snuck out on a hunt alone just for the sake of it. He was your lover, on and off, for about  _eight years_ now, through the thick and thin.

He was your partner, in many different ways, since the day you met.

And because he was—because you loved him—you knew him inside-out, and you knew that right now, as the three of you were heading out of the boat where Kevin was and he handed him the pills with a “Don’t OD” and a slap on the shoulder, he was being a stupid, selfish son of a bitch. You understood his logic; he wanted to get things done, “play through the pain” and all that, in order to slam the doors of hell once and for all, but the kid was fucking fried.

“Really, Dean?”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “You got any better idea to keep him going?”

“I could take him back to the bunker,” you suggested, “He’ll get some rest there and on the way then start fresh in a few hours.”

He frowned. “What about you? You’re not coming with us?”

“He needs me more,” you said, “Don’t you think?” He grimaced and licked his lips, shrugging. “What? What is it?”

He nodded in Sam’s direction. “Mind giving us a minute?” Sam mumbled something incoherent and excused himself to wait in the car. “This is  _big._ ”

“I know.” You glanced back at Kevin, who was burying himself in papers on his desk and stood closer to Dean. “Which is why he needs to be up for whatever comes next. At this rate, he’ll drop in a couple of days—a week, if we’re lucky.”

“What about me? Us?” he asked, “We’re going after  _hellhounds._ ”

You slid your hands in the pockets of your jeans. “You just said it sounded awesome.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, his mouth dropping. “Yeah,  _in comparison._ Y/N, we could use your help on this one.” He sighed. “Like,  _really._ I can’t do this without you.”

“You can.”

He glanced out of the door. “Listen to me,” he said, “I don’t know what your problem is today, but—”

“My problem,” you whispered, “Is that there’s a  _kid_ in here working his ass off and he can barely function. We’ve all done him wrong during the past year,  _especially me_  and now, we have the means to maybe,  _maybe_ make this a teeny tiny bit easier on him,” you said, “And I think we  _should._ ”

“So this has nothing to do with you avoiding confrontation recently?”

You averted your gaze. He’d talked about that before, about how he noticed that ever since he got back from Purgatory, you did your best to avoid being involved in the bigger hunts—made up excuses, told him you had something else to do that conveniently popped up on the same day they were supposed to go after something especially dangerous. It was true, for the most part; you’d visited your brother and seen your nephews one-time-too-many during the past few months. You couldn’t shake off the fear that, for the third time, you’d fuck things up for the people around you. The first time, your brother became paralyzed. The second, Dean and Cas spent a year in Purgatory. Both of them could’ve been prevented. Both of them were your fault.

You lost all faith in your skills. All those years of training, all those tools and those nights of research—what were they worth if you couldn’t keep your loved ones safe,  _alive_?

“Dean—”

“Ridiculous,” he muttered, “Fine, whatever, you wanna stay with Kevin and be a mom for a day or whatever, do it.”

You pursed your lips. You’d much rather he become verbally upset with you, instead of just passive-aggressively letting you have your way; he was making it sound like you were letting him down, and that was the exact opposite of what you wanted to do. Especially today. “How about we reach a middle ground?”

He raised his eyebrows. “I’m listening.”

*

“Talk to me.”

“I found something,” Kevin said through the loudspeaker of your phone as you drove towards the farm where Dean and Sam were, trying to hunt a hellhound for the first trial. “About hellhounds.”

“Awesome,” you said, swerving to the right, the property coming into your line of vision. “What is it?”

“Uh, I spoke to Sam and Dean,” he started, “Long story short, there’s a way you can see hellhounds—scorch glasses with holy fire.”

You parked the car about a mile away from the property itself, near the woods surrounding it and turned around in your seat, grabbing your jacket. “Alright, sounds great,” you said; you could use your spare glasses. “Thank you. Tell me, how’s the bunker treating you?”

He laughed a little. “It’s…great,” he said, “So many references, too. I might find something useful in here. Thank you.”

You smiled to yourself. “Don’t mention it, buddy. Go, get some sleep.”

“Yeah, that’s what Sam said,” he replied, “Talk—”

The phone beeped—out of battery. Dammit. You sighed and slid the phone in your pocket, grabbing your glasses and the tiny bottle of holy oil you had in the trunk of your car. You lit the ground and passed the material through the flames.  _That should do it._ You put down the fire, took off your contacts and put on the glasses, making sure your angel blade was secure in its holster. You had a bad feeling about this—about going on this quest with them, but you had to; you had to get over your  _somewhat_  irrational “fear of confrontation” as Dean put it. You were a hunter for crying out loud, and that wasn’t going to change any time soon, so you might as well get over your fears now, when you had back-up.

You walked through the woods, aiming for the property, when you heard feet shuffling near you. You turned around, blade in hand. “Hello? Who’s there?”

“Hello?” a girl answered, “Who is it?”

“Police!” you called, moving towards the source of the sound. You tucked your blade back in and got out your gun, passing a couple of trees before finally spotting her. She was young, maybe twenty-something, in an oversized shirt and sweater, shaking. Her face so pale you were surprised she was standing up still. “Hey, you okay?”

“I’m—oh-oh my God!” Her feet stumbled back, her wide eyes fixed on you. “Y-You! You!” she stuttered, turning on her heel and sprinting away as fast as she could in her shaken state.

What the hell?

 _What’s her deal?_ You ran after her, hiding your gun in your jacket. Maybe that was what scared her? You  _did_ tell her you were with the police, so a gun shouldn’t surprise her, let alone scare her. Just when you were about to reach her, her foot caught a stray branch and she fell to her face. “Hey,” you said, as softly as you could, approaching her with slow, deliberate steps so you wouldn’t alarm her  _again_. “I’m Officer Osbourne—” Dean was the one who made the latest batch of IDs “—I’m not going to hurt you.”

She pulled herself up, wincing and reaching for her knee. Panting, she glanced up at you. “What’s  _happening_?”

You blinked, opening your mouth to ask her what she meant when it hit you. “Are you a Cassity?”

She nodded. “Margie—Margot Cassity.”

A Cassity, wandering around the woods relatively late at night, confused and freaked as hell—it didn’t take a genius to figure it out. The only problem was that you were counting on actually making it to them on the other side before something like this happened; they were the ones with the goofer dust. Now, all you could do was lurk around her and hope you could make it out of there with both of you intact.

You held out your hand for her. “Alright, Margie, I need you to listen to me,” you said, “I’m going to take you back to the farm then we’ll deal with this, okay? But we need to move as fast as—”

Too late.

Stray branches ruffled around you. You got out your blade and dropped the gun to the ground, knowing regular bullets wouldn’t affect hellhounds, most probably. In your peripheral vision, you spotted one running towards both of you from the right. The only sound you could hear was Margie’s frantic screams; you only see the hound moving, so you squatted next to her, holding your blade out for it, which only made it run  _faster_ towards you.  _Fuck_. You had no idea how big those things actually were until now.

The hound bared its teeth and pounced at you. Even with your glasses, its figure was almost like a dark hologram. You plunged your arm towards it, grunting as the sword scraped its thick skin, making it ooze some black, leviathan-like blood on you. The dog-like creature whimpered visibly, but didn’t run away. Instead, it slapped the weapon out of your hand with its claws. Your screams joined Margie’s and you tried to kick it off of you, but it wouldn’t budge. The more you resisted, the angrier it seemed to be; it scratched its claws along your side— _holy fuck—_ and was about to take a chunk of you when it stopped.

Margie’s screamed stopped, too.

The figure above you smoked out and you held a hand to your bleeding side before pulling yourself— _fuck—_ up and turning your head around to see her. She was lying on her back, eyes wide, void, every inch of her from the neck down in fucking  _threads._ There was another one. There was another damn hellhound  _right behind you_ and you couldn’t even  _try_ to stop it because you didn’t see or hear it. You scrambled away, hissing at the pain shooting from your waist, when a familiar voice called through the woods.

“Margie!”

Sam. “Help!”

“Y/N?”

*

“Are you okay?! What happened? When did you even get here?”

You wanted to get up and smile at Dean, but you could barely keep your eyes open. Ellie, who was managing the property, according to Sam, was putting the final touches on the wrap around your wounds so you weren’t losing blood still, but your head was a fuzzy haze. A heavy, fuzzy haze. “I’m fine,” you said, “I’ve had worse.”

“She should really get to a hospital,” Ellie said.

“I’m really fine,” you repeated, turning your head to Dean. “Tell her.”

“You look terrible.”

“Gee,” you said, “Way to make a girl feel good.” You turned your head to Ellie. “Can you give us a minute, please?”

Her eyes flew between both of you and she nodded. “Let me know if I can bring you anything,” she said on her way out. Once she was gone, Dean rushed to your side, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“What happened?” he repeated, “Sam only told me that you were there and that Margie died—wait, what’s that?” He brushed his hand over your cheek, sweeping something from your hairline. “Is that…blood? Did you kill one?” he asked, “Please tell me you didn’t.”

You frowned. “No. It was gone before I could.” Even though you were pretty sure that if it had stayed you would’ve been the one whose blood was going to spill. “Why not, though? Isn’t it the whole point? Killing a hellhound? Completing the trial?”

His eyes avoided yours. “I just—I want to be the one to do it.”

“Does it matter who does it?”

“N—Yes,” he admitted, “I’ve been thinking about it. The way things have been going for us, especially with the tablet stuff—like with the leviathans? We ice Dick and we get sent to Purgatory,” he said, “Someone always gets fucked over in the end.”

 _What the—_ “And you think you should be the one to get fucked over?” you asked, pulling yourself up, ignoring the pain. “ _Again_? Dean—”

“Well I sure as hell don’t want it to be  _you_ ,” he said, “Or Sam. And someone has to do it.”

You stared at him for a moment, taking in his features. He was dead serious about this, wasn’t he? What was with this man and being completely and utterly stupid? “Why does anybody have to do it?” you asked, “Hell’s been out there since the beginning of time. I think humanity can handle a few thousand more years.”

He clenched his jaw. “I want them gone,” he said, “Every single son of a bitch out there. And—” He let out a sharp exhale “—we’ve had enough, don’t you think? Don’t you think we deserve some kind of normality in our lives? You, Sam,” he said, “ _Kevin._ ” He licked his lips and shook his head. “We can’t do that with hell up and running.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him that it was possible, to tell him that even if it wasn’t, normal wasn’t your thing, or his. You knew, for a fact, that a year or two or  _five_ after, theoretically speaking, closing the gates of hell, something would drag you back to hunting; if not the circumstances or another type of monster then your own nature. Neither of you could go a month without looking for a case, even if you didn’t  _have to._  But you couldn’t make that argument. You couldn’t tell him you didn’t wish you could close the gates once and for all. You couldn’t lie and say that you didn’t want a normal life with him.

Keyword being  _with him._

“We’ll figure this out,” you promised, “Right now, we should get on with a hex bag—do you have any idea who else made a deal in this nuthouse?”

“Sam’s trying to figure it out right now,” he said, “Why the hex bag, though? We can still—”

“You think Crowley won’t notice one of his pups got a scar?” you asked, “He’ll sic the whole pack on us—on  _them_. We have to get out of here and get whoever made the deal somewhere warded.”

For the first time, you didn’t regret having screwed up a hunt; you hadn’t thought about things from Dean’s perspective and if you had, you wouldn’t have supported them coming down here today. You knew if you could talk one of them out of it, the other would gladly step in; they were both so selfless and with so many self-worth issues it hurt. They couldn’t see themselves for who they were—for how good they were—but they were your family now, in more than one way, and it was up to you to keep them from being the stupid fucktards they seemed to be at times.

You expected him to protest, to push the limits even further—tell you the risk was worth it—but he didn’t. He just leaned in, brushed his thumb across your cheek and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “Okay,” he breathed. “Get some rest. I’ll make the hex bag,” he said, “I think we have everything in the trunk. We’ll be out of here in an hour.”

*

There was never going to be a right time.

Dean’s speech earlier made you realize that—your lives were as far from normal as humanly possible, you couldn’t apply “normal” conditions to them. There was never going to be a time good enough or appropriate enough; you were always going to be chasing something, on the run from something or worse—dead. You couldn’t wait around until the stars aligned or some crap like that, if you wanted something bad enough, you had to get it done, fingers crossed and hope to God, or whoever had mercy on you, that it wouldn’t blow up in your face  _too badly._

The imagery flashed in front of your eyes, from the passenger seat of the Impala, changing from dark, bluish tints to waves of orange and sparks of yellow. You’d been on the road all night, on your way back to the bunker, Sam somewhere right behind you, in your car. You were feeling a lot better, especially after you’d gulped down maybe three bottles of juice and as many painkillers as you could handle without getting yourself into serious trouble. Dean had slept a couple of hours as well and woke up with a renewed smile on his face, ready to take on a new day.

“You ever really look at the color of the sky?” you asked him, “The way it changes in, like, maybe twenty minutes. It’s so beautiful.”

“Ha,” he said, “I haven’t in a while.” He let go of the steering wheel for a second, switching hands to hold yours, bringing it up to his lips. “You know,” he said, “Like, maybe when I was sixteen or seventeen and Dad left us with the car, we’d go out at sunrise somewhere in the middle of the road and just stare up at the sky. Sam used to count the stars—try to see how many he could see after it wasn’t dark anymore.”

You grinned. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So I suppose it wouldn’t be very original of me to ask you to pull over for a while?”

He shook his head, laughing. “I can do that.”

He pulled over to the side of the road and you both got out. You moved to the front of the car and motioned for him to join you. “Help me up.”

“You big baby,” he said, lifting you up so you could sit on the hood. “You get one tiny scratch—”

You slapped his arm. “Shut up, it hurts.” He rolled his eyes and joined you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you down so both of your heads rested against the cold glass. He took a deep breath and looked up at the sky, a smile spreading on his lips, bringing up the lines under his eyes. He was so beautiful, you noticed. Every line of his face, everything about him.

Love wasn’t blind. It didn’t need to be.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Hmm?”

“There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

He squeezed your shoulder gently, eyes fixed on the sky. “What is it?”

There was never going to be a right time. But this was close enough. “I’ve been thinking—”

“Never good.”

“—and—hey!”

The whole car shook with his laughter. “Sorry, sorry, go on.”

“I love you—”

“I love you, too.”

You groaned. “Just let me finish the damn sentence. As I was saying—”

“You love me.”

“You’re impossible. You know what? Forget it.” You crossed your arms over your chest, only half-serious. “You’re a child.”

He rolled over to his side, throwing a leg over yours and pulling you closer, his warm, green eyes piercing through yours. “What is it?”

“I—”  _No, that wasn’t the right sentence._ “Dean—” He leaned in so you were inches apart, his eyes curious “—will you marry me?”


	7. Timing

**Two years ago**

“I knew I should’ve left you to rot the moment I saw you!”

You stormed out of the yellow Bug and slammed the door, making its useless frame shake. Stupid piece of crap—couldn’t count on it for  _one_ quick errand. One! You should’ve never have listened to that idiot Dean when he told you to buy it seven months ago. Just because he knew his way around his precious Impala and could maybe hot-wire most vehicles out there didn’t make him a damn expert. “ _It’s affordable,_ ” he’d said, “ _And tougher than it looks—with a few tweaks it could be pretty neat.”_

_Neat my ass._

You rubbed the sheet of sweat forming on your palms on the sides of your skinny jeans, another stupid-ass invention that was neither comfortable nor did it look good on  _anything._  Whatever happened to people? Sure, hunting was a full-time job, but you were pretty sure you weren’t so cut off from the world around you they decided to make jeans that only fits half of the month. The angels should’ve had their way with their freakin’ apocalypse last May. All of you should’ve just laid back or disappeared or whatever and let them have their party; if you survived, Sam would still be alive, you wouldn’t be wearing this waste of fabric, and Dean wouldn’t be away all morning, in the construction site, with his damn phone God-knows-where, leaving you here, in the front-yard of your house, fighting with your car because you couldn’t go to a freakin’ pharmacy and put your mind at rest. Science might disagree with you, but the truth was, there was no way you could wait.

There was no way you could spend a few more hours not knowing whether or not you were pregnant.

Growing up, leading the life you used to, you never really had the luxury of counting days or knowing exactly when your period hit or when to expect it, apart from the usual indicators like, say, your stomach morphing into a bottomless pit for a couple of days. Some days there was blood. Some of those days, the blood was yours, others, it wasn’t. Most of the days when the blood was yours, it wasn’t exactly natural, but hey, it was in the job description. Periods just  _happened._

But now, about seven or eight months into your new living arrangement with Dean, the one based on Sam’s last pleading wish, you had all the time in the world to worry about stuff like being a  _fucking month late._  The only thing worse than having to go through the devil’s personal gift for women was  _not_ receiving it and realizing that you might be in line for a gift from the other side of town. Right now. Just growing inside of you.

Waiting was  _not_ an option.

You tried Dean’s phone one more time.  _I swear if he doesn’t—_ “Hey, sweetheart.”

You leaned your hand on the car. “Where have you been?” you asked, “I’ve called you, like, four times.”

“Uh.” He cleared his throat. “Working? I just got my lunch break. Is everything okay?”

“I need the keys to the Impala,” you said, “Where do you keep them? I looked  _everywhere_.” You shifted your weight on your leg, tapping your foot against the grass. “And my car wouldn’t fucking start for some reason—the battery’s busted,  _again_ —I need—”

“ _Hey_ ,” he said, “Slow down. What’s wrong?”

You huffed. “Where. Are. The keys?”

“With me,” he said, “They’re in my key chain. You know that. What’s up?”

You took a deep breath. “I know  _your_ keys are in your chain. I’m talking about your spare set,” you said through gritted teeth. “You keep them around the house.  _Where?_ ”

“I dunno, somewhere in the garage—probably the toolbox.”  _What kind of idiot puts keys in a toolbox?_ “Listen, I don’t think it’s a good idea if you take Baby out—”

 _No. Not today._ “This will be the least of your concerns if you find out you’re having a  _real_ baby in a few months.”

The line went silent. Maybe,  _maybe_  you shouldn’t have blurted it out like that. Of all the ways you could tell him…“What?”

You sighed. “I might be pregnant,” you said, “I dunno. I was going to get a test or something.”

You had to check if the line was still on after a few seconds.  _Exhale_. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said, “I’ll take the rest of the day off.”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t have to,” you said, “Just let me take the car. Is there anything wrong with it—like, physically wrong? Because I  _will_ kick it if—”

“No, no, it’s fine—just, wait for me. I’ll be home in an hour,” he said, “And before you say anything I know you’re perfectly capable of driving there yourself but just, humor me, alright?”

You tapped your fingers against the stupid yellow metal. “ _Fine_. I’ll wait.”

*

“So?”

“Three minutes,” you breathed, holding onto the stick between your fingers and crossing your arms, leaning back against the dishwasher next to Dean who was, all of a sudden, sporting the biggest, goofiest grin you’d ever seen on him since, well,  _forever._  “What are you so chirpy about?”

“What?” He threw an arm around your waist. “Am I not allowed to be excited?”

You arched your eyebrow, turning to face him. “You—you want this?” you asked, “You want kids?”

You’d never talked to Dean about this before. You thought it was sort of a given; whether it was the fact that both of you were hunters and bringing up kids in the same environment  _you_ grew up in wasn’t even an option or the endless supply of condoms and pills you both made sure you had at all times—it was pretty obvious that a baby was out of the equation. When did Dean change his mind? When did he start wanting kids?

“Well,” he said, “I wouldn’t  _plan_ it, but if it happens, it happens. We’re in a good place, I think.” He pulled you closer. “We quit the life, didn’t we? We have day jobs and all that,” he said, “If there’s any time to have a kid…”

You frowned. What made him think that you’d always have this life? Having a kid is a life-long commitment, and you didn’t even know if you’d be dragged into hunting again  _somehow._ So maybe right now, at this exact moment, there were no major supernatural activity. Maybe you’d ditched most of your phones and lost touch with hunters. But what about later? What about when your dull day jobs take their toll on you and you can’t stand it anymore? What about when your grieving for Sam is over and you have no real connection or desire to have the “apple pie life”?

What about  _you?_ Did  _you_ want kids? Did you want to be a mother?  _Could you?_

The scary thing was that you didn’t know. Could you be responsible for another human being? For a tiny, helpless human being whose entire perspective and nurturing was your and Dean’s responsibility? Could you provide a healthy,  _sane,_ childhood when you’d barely had a childhood yourself? Could you be someone’s mom and  _not_ turn out like  _your_ mom did?

“Do you—” You cleared your throat “—do you want it because it’s  _convenient_ , or because you actually want to be a father?”

“Both? Maybe, I dunno,” he said, “To be honest, this is all confusing as fuck. Ever since you told me, I haven’t been able to form one complete thought.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, glancing down at your feet, “Join the club.”

He rubbed your waist up and down. “Hey, c’mon.” He kissed the top of your head. “Pregnant or not, it’s okay,” he said, “One step at a time.”

You nodded, pursing your lips and leaning on his chest. “What if we get bored?”

“What?”

“Bored,” you repeated, “Of this life. Or—of this place, and we want to start over somewhere else. Or maybe we’ll get called—we’re both dead to the government, if you don’t remember. What then?”

“How much time left?”

You glanced at your phone. “About a minute.”

He nodded. “Alright. Put it away.”

“What?”

“Put the test away. Hide it behind—” He grabbed a mug from the counter “—this. C’mon.” You narrowed your eyes at him but did as he asked anyway. He held you by your shoulders and dragged you a little so you were standing in front of him. Then he reached inside his pocket and got out a small, dark blue box.  _What the—_ “I’ve been doing some thinking, ever since you called—” Because  _that’s_ a lot of time “—I think we’ve…reached this place,” he said, “Where we could call our lives somewhat stable—as stable as it could get, really—”

“What are you doing?”

“Think of this as a…promise,” he said, “Y/N, I promise I’ll always do my best.” He flipped the box in his hand. “I’ll always love you, and I’ll always be there for you—” Your eyes widened. No. No, that  _wasn’t_ what you thought it was, was it? “No matter how hard it gets, no matter how tempting it may be to get back to our old routine.” He gently grabbed your hand in his and lowered himself to his knees, opening the box with the other. “This is a replica of my mom’s,” he said, “Dad had it made and stored in one of his storage units—never mind, that’s not important. The important part is—”

No, no, no. He was  _not_ seriously proposing right now just because you  _might_ be pregnant. Panic coursing through your veins, you slapped your palm over his mouth with one hand and reached for the pregnancy test with the other. One stripe. One, lonely blue stripe.

“Not pregnant!”

—

**Present day, 2013**

“Are you sure you’re not pregnant?”

“You know what?” you said, throwing a small book as hard as you could. “Screw you, Sam.”

He laughed—a genuine, throaty laugh that made your heart melt—and dodged it. The kid’s been so stressed lately—so guilty, too. He’d been trying to make it up to Dean one way or the other because he didn’t look for him when he was in Purgatory, thinking he was dead. To be fair, there was no way to know what had happened to Dean; you’d refused to believe he was dead, unlike his brother who was much more mature about it. You went on a wild goose chase, trying everything—angels, demons, pagans, hoodoo, you name it, but nothing led to Dean—nobody knew where Dean or Cas were, but the fact that they weren’t in heaven or hell kept you going, until you couldn’t anymore. Two months later, Dean showed up, but that was another story.

Even though you didn’t give up on Dean being alive  _somewhere_ , you couldn’t blame Sam for the way he dealt with this. He was trying to rationalize things—to normalize them, to be okay with the outcome and  _move on._  He was tired and overworked after this whole leviathan deal—it was only fair he got some time off along with some sort of peace of mind. But this was the first time you’d actually seen or heard him laugh in so long.

“I think it’s great,” he said, “If not a little overdue—you guys have been together for, what now? Six years?”

“Eight.”

“Wow.” He stood up, the wooden chair squeaking against the floor of the Men of Letters library. He put a book back and grabbed another. “Why’s he taking time to think again?”

You licked your lips. “I sort of gave him an ultimatum.”

He frowned. “Doesn’t sound like you,” he commented, sitting back down.  _Ha. If you only knew._  “What’d you want?”

“No trials.”

He froze. “What?”

“No trials,” you repeated with a shrug, “No closing down the gates of hell. None of that. We let go of this  _completely._ ”

“Why?”

You turned in your seat and crossed your legs. “Because I can’t lose him—or you,” you said, “ _Again._ ”

He ran a hand through his hair and nodded. “Fair enough.”

That was fast. Too fast. “I thought you’d protest,” you admitted, “I mean, you want this, too, don’t you? Shutting the gates?”

He shrugged. “Do I want to gank every demon out there? Sure,” he said, “But it doesn’t sound like it could be something we can handle—and I know we can handle a lot.” He sighed. “I was—am—doing it for him, honestly. I mean, I owe him—I owe  _Kevin_ —so much after—” You raised a challenging eyebrow at him and he stopped; you’d talked about this before. “Let’s just leave it at that it’s not really my cup of tea.” You nodded understandingly. “Have you told Andy and the kids yet?”

You shook your head. “Not until he  _answers me_ , you know.”

“What? You think he might actually say no?”

Truth was, you didn’t know. And it wasn’t about whether or not he loved you, because he did—you knew he did. It was just that—he wasn’t the type of person to respond to choices (or rather ultimatums) pretty well. He  _liked_ to take risks and he liked to challenge the circumstances and try to bend them for his favor. And even though he did talk a _little_ about Purgatory, you still weren’t sure how much it might’ve changed his perspective on things. After spending a year in Monster Land, his priorities  _could’ve_ changed. He might be more focused on doing his job—beyond the “normal” scope—than his personal life right now. He might just not want to commit the same way you did, whether to you or to a relationship in general.

You didn’t really think this through, did you?

You wouldn’t take it back, though. Even if the timing wasn’t perfect, you wanted this. You wanted to spend the rest of your life with Dean and commit to that no matter what. It wasn’t about a piece of paper. It wasn’t about not feeling that you two were serious enough—you wanted to wake up every morning next to him knowing that he was your  _husband_ , even if he’d always been your partner.

Even if he’d always been your family.

“I’m not sure.” You fiddled with the pen in front of you. “I wouldn’t, you know,  _leave_ if he decided he didn’t want to get married.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“I think we’re beyond that now,” you said, “This whole couple hypersensitivity thing. We’re adults. We know what we want and—” You sighed “—I want this, so much, but it’s not a deal-breaker,” you said, “The trials, however…”

You didn’t know if you could handle being around him if he purposefully put himself at this risk for the millionth time. This life was dangerous enough as it was without the Winchester Selflessness factor doubled with a shot of depression and being suicidal. You couldn’t live with yourself if you let him—or Sam—throw themselves under the bus the way they always seemed too eager to.

“Yeah,” he breathed, “Well, if it comes down to it and he asks me about the trials, I’m on your side. It’s—” Your phone buzzed in your pants. “—too risky, I agree.”

You held up a finger to him and slipped your phone out—a text.

**Meet me outside. We need to talk.**


	8. Fin

**1997**

“Hurry up, your dad’s gonna see me.”

You climbed out of the window and crouched on the grass, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one had spotted you. Dean dimmed the Impala’s headlights and leaned in his seat to open the door for you, giving you the chance to crawl in. As soon as you settled in the passenger seat, he reached out a hand, lacing his fingers through your hair and—“What are you doing?”

He raised his eyebrows, letting go of you and shifting the gear. “Not in the mood then.”

You stared at him, your mouth agape. Him, too? What was with everyone today? “Something’s weird is going on,” you said as the car moved. “What happened after you dropped me off at the warehouse? I woke up  _at home._ ”

He stayed silent for a moment, eying you carefully as he drove. “What warehouse, Y/N? The last time I saw you was yesterday, at  _school_.”

 _School?_  What school? You and Dean never shared schools; you’d dropped out of the system last semester, after Andy’s accident and he dropped out after he got his GED. “The warehouse upstate,” you clarified, “We went in after some creature covered in weird blue tattoos. You were supposed to cover the back door.”

“What?” He pulled over. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The warehouse!” you repeated, “Ugh, Dean, don’t do this—not today. I woke up at  _home_ and everyone was there and everyone’s  _fine._ Dean, Andy’s  _walking_  again.  _Walking._ ”

He stared at you. “Are you high?” he asked, “Did Trixie hook you up with something after school?”

“ _What school?_ ” You turned in your seat. “Dean, this isn’t funny. I’m freaking out here.”

He licked his lips. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he said, “But if you’re on something, you better tell me where you’re stashing it—if your dad finds out, he’ll arrest you himself and you know it.”

“Ha! So you know about that!”

He frowned. “About what?”

About your dad being the freakin’ sheriff. This morning, he was in his uniform and all. You thought it was weird, even when you couldn’t remember how you ended up there when you’d been out on the road for quite some time and that was  _before_ you saw Andy. He’d never dressed as someone from the local force for obvious reasons, but you didn’t bother to ask, too preoccupied with trying to piece what happened together yourself.

And now, even  _Dean_ seemed to be on the crazy side of things. Why did he pull you in for a  _kiss?_  Who the heck was Trixie? You were losing your mind. This had to be it; either you were hallucinating right now—a hallucination so vivid it was creeping you out—or you had officially lost your mind. “I—I dunno,” you muttered, “I dunno, just take me home.”

“Aw, c’mon, babe,” he said, “It’s not even a school night—”

 _School night?_ You snickered and he stared at you again. What? He was serious? “I’m gonna be sick.”

He sighed. “I don’t know what’s up with you,” he said, “But maybe  _this_ will get your mind off things—” He reached out to the backseat and grabbed a bag. “It took me some time to get it, so, consider it a very late Valentine’s Day gift.”

You inched closer to him, curious. He slid the zip open and got out a small, red box. “Jewelry?”

“Just open it.”

You took the soft cube in your fingers and pushed the lid open, revealing a small silver bullet on a matching necklace. You picked it up between your thumb and your middle finger.  _Wow—wait, is that—_ “Two fourteen ninety-six?”

He beamed. “Yeah,” he said, “The day we met. Remember? When our dads were hunting together—”

“Hunting, yes—go on.”  _Finally something normal._

“You’d caught your first deer,” he said, “Looked pretty badass doing it, too.”  _Deer. Oh._ “So, I thought this would be great for our anniversary—maybe you could wear it at prom?”

 _Prom?_ You were having a prom? And Dean was taking you? Wait,  _anniversary_? You’d been together with Dean for a year? When did that happen? Oh man, what was going  _on_? Why was everything so – so—

Perfect?

 _Who cares?_ You had everything you wanted, by some miracle. Did it matter  _how_ or  _why_? Your parents weren’t mad at you anymore, you had a  _house_  all to yourself that wasn’t  _temporary_ , Andy was alright and happy as ever, you were  _dating Dean Winchester_ and you were about to go to prom with him in a few weeks, you assumed. You weren’t a hunter, not in the supernatural sense, you didn’t have any scars  _anywhere—_ you’d checked this morning in the shower—your mom was like one of those moms in the catalogs—all she did was cook and clean and wake you up with pancakes. Everyone was okay,  _you_ were okay.

You had a family. And you had Dean. Did you really want to dig? Figure out how this happened?

Hell no.

“It’s perfect,” you croaked, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “I love it, thank you so much.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, “Now, wanna catch a movie? Absolute Power is out and I have a friend who works at the theater—he can get us in—what do you say?”

*

“Y/N! Y/N, can you hear me? If you can hear me, raise a finger.”

 _Wha—_ why was your head so heavy? Who was calling you? Slowly, you pushed your lids open. “Where am I?”

You heard someone sigh and come into your field in vision—John Winchester? “You two idiots went after a djinn and he caught you, both of you,” he said, “Lucky for you, Sam and I got to it before it fed.”

“A djinn?”

“I called your father. You’re going back home, young lady,” he said, “You two could’ve  _died_ today. I don’t think you understand that.”

No—no, you understood pretty well. You could’ve died on the hunt you’d gone on completely blind, without an hour’s worth of research because you liked the rush. You could’ve died on the hunt you’d gone on while you were running away from your family—the two hunters and the brother you put in a wheelchair. You could’ve died because you didn’t really care.

You turned your head away at the sound of Dean groaning back to consciousness. “Is Y/N okay?”

You could’ve died and missed the way your best friend turned his head until his eyes settled on you and he smiled.

—

**Present day, 2013**

“You said we needed to talk?”

Dean dug his hands in the pockets of his jeans, defying the breeze outside the bunker, pulling his poker face on. Your heart sunk. “Yeah,” he said, “We—uh—we have a problem.”

He was going to say no, wasn’t he? He was going to stick to the trials. You had to know that, you had to know better than to ask him so soon after he came back from Purgatory. You had to understand that he wasn’t the same Dean he was  _before_ , that you shouldn’t expect the same reactions from him. You didn’t know what he’d gone through there, maybe icing hell was more important to him right now.

What have you done?

“Okay,” you said quietly, “Talk to me.”

You wondered how he was going to say it—would he pull a cheesy line, something like ‘It’s not you, it’s me’? Would he ask you to stick around nevertheless? Would he try to cushion the blow, or just straight out tell you that you had to go your separate ways? Would—“It’s Andy. He called.”

Wait,  _what_? “Andy?” you repeated, “He called you? Is everything okay?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, “He wanted us to come down there immediately, no excuses.”

You could feel your blood drain from your face. “Is he okay? Is it the kids? Did they get in trouble? Are they okay?”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure, he didn’t say much,” he said, “And all their phones have been off ever since.” He took your hand in his. “Relax, I’m sure everything’s fine—” He pulled you towards the direction of the car. “—C’mon, I packed for you. We’re leaving right now.”

He packed for you? Since when did he  _pack for you_? If he had time to pack, didn’t he have time to tell you  _earlier_? Didn’t he think it was important for you to hear about your brother sending an SOS signal to him, your  _boyfriend_ , and not  _you_ , and then going offline? What was wrong with Andy? Why didn’t he call you? Was your phone off? No. No, you’d just received Dean’s text. Your phone was working just fine.

What the fuck was going on?

You got into the car next to him, stunned speechless. The Impala buzzed to life and before you knew it, you were on the road. You thought you’d demand answers from him, try to make sense out of everything but if he didn’t tell you right away, he wouldn’t. And if he was lying, for whatever reason, he wasn’t going to spill the beans just because you asked. Was he lying?

Could he be?

He could be, especially that nothing added up. Dean was a great hunter, and a natural liar, especially when put in stressful situation, but for some reason, he was never able to lie to you. You always caught him; his lies were always so badly constructed you sometimes thought he did it on purpose, just so you’d find out, or at least have this lingering doubt in your mind. One of those times, when you’d asked him why he did that when he could’ve lied better, he’d said, “ _Well if you know it’s a lie and you go along with it, then I never really deceived you._ ”

And he never did. Not once.

So maybe you should just trust him on this one—truth or not, there was no reason to freak out around him. You slid in your seat, leaned on the window, decided it was a bad idea because you kept bumping your head into it, and ended up sleeping with your head on Dean’s lap. He didn’t mind that when you were on the road for long hours; his leg was almost stable anyway and you knew the risks of waking up with your nose inside out because you rolled all the way to the steering wheel.

“Y/N?” A hand rubbed the side of your cheek. “Y/N, wake up, we’re there.”

You perked your head up and looked around you, wiping the drool off your lips. Did you sleep for  _seven hours_? Wait—it was still light out. And this wasn’t Andy’s house. “Wha—”

He brushed your hair away from your face. “Welcome home.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “See this house over there?” He pointed at the two-story house, which was a vintage shade of green, you were parked in front of. Its windows and door were so bright you could almost smell the fresh paint.

“What about it?”

He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you closer to him, rotating in his seat so he was facing the house. “This is where I lived back before, you know…” He smiled. “We’re in Lawrence.”

You looked again at the property, taking it in—this is where he grew up. This is the place he was so fond of, the place he’d always told you he wished he’d spent the rest of his life in. Right up there might’ve been his room. Or maybe it was downstairs, close to the door, somewhere convenient for a teenager who’d never stick to his parents’ curfew. He’d talked so much about it, especially when you were kids, that you had this mental image of it. Sure, in your head it was a lot bigger and a lot…redder, kind of like a standard house, like something you’d see in a children’s book, but it had the same aura—the one that reeked of familiarity even though you’d never been there. “Really?”

He nodded. “And it’s ours now.”

“Uh—”

“I bought it a couple of weeks after Bobby died,” he explained, “And I just kept it, thought I’d clean it up after everything with the leviathan’s was over and maybe,  _maybe_ we could try to quit at least for a little while. I never said anything because I didn’t know if we’d be able to follow through, and I didn’t want to promise anything I couldn’t keep, you know?” He rubbed your shoulder. “But, well, it’s ours now.”

“Ours?” you repeated, “What do you mean? What about the bunker?”

“Oh no, we’d still be living at the bunker,” he said, “Are you kidding? It’s the safest place ever—plus, the references and everything? It would be pretty stupid to leave that and come live out in the open like that.” He sighed. “But it’s ours anyway. We’ll bring furniture. We’ll spend our time off here. That sort of thing. And, well,  _who knows_ , right? Maybe one day.”

Wow. Your house. Just yours and his. And no one had to die or go to hell or get possessed by Lucifer for it to happen. Your face split into a grin and you pecked his lips. “Maybe one day.”

“C’mon,” he said, “Get out. I have to show you something else.”

Excited, you hopped out of the car, stretching your limbs. He hooked his arm in yours and led you to the house. Once you were outside the door, he stopped. “Um, listen,” he said in a hushed tone, “Do you have your gun?” You shook your head; you didn’t count on needing one when you got out to meet Dean and you knew there were a few in the trunk anyway. “Good, good. Try not to jump anybody.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he opened the door— _holy—_ “Surprise!”

Everyone was there—Andy, his wife Aisha, their kids—Frankie and Jude, Sam and  _Charlie_? What on earth…“Hi?”

The room roared— _thanks, Sam_ —with laughter and they all exchanged a knowing look. “Alright, alright, settle down,” Dean said, “Frankie, stay over—” Frankie stumbled his way to you and wrapped his tiny arms around your thighs “—never mind.”

“Auntie Y/N! I missed you!”

You grinned and lifted him up— _God, he’s heavy._ “I missed you too, buddy!”

“Is it true that you and Uncle Dean—”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Dean took him from your hand and set him on the ground. “Why don’t you go to your mom?”

“But—”

He kneeled down in front of him. “I’ll give you extra cake.”

“ _Cake_?” he repeated, “I want five bucks.”

“Frankie!” Aisha scolded. “Come over here  _right now!_ ”

He pouted but did as she asked anyway. Dean had a mischievous, victorious grin on his face as he stood up and turned back to you. It was moments like these that made you question your own logic—how did the same man who fought monsters for a living butt heads with a five-year-old within the same week? “So, as you all know,” he started, “I gathered you here because I have an announcement to make.” He turned to you. “But first, there’s something I have to get out of the way.” He turned to Sam, who threw him a small plastic bag. “Y/N.”

“Hmm?”

“When we were little, you gave me something,” he said, “You were nine or ten, maybe.” He held up the bag in his hand. “You got out and got yourself a bag of gummy bears,” he said, “On Valentine’s Day, but you said you saw I was upset and decided to give it to me.” Heat crept into your cheeks. “So, here.”

“How do you even  _remember_ that?” you asked, taking the bag from him, the stares and stifled giggles of everyone in the room burning into your skin.

He smiled—a soft, sweet smile. Maybe too sweet. “You never shut up about it for three years,” he reminded you, “You brought it up every time you could.”

“You’re an—” You glanced at the kids, barely containing your smile yourself. “You’re a butt, you know that?”

He laughed, along with everyone else and rubbed your arm reassuringly. “I do. Just let me finish.” You nodded. “Now that the gummy bears are out of the way and we’re completely even,” he said, “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Mhm?”

He cleared his throat. “Y/N—” He slid out a piece of paper from his jacket “—I tried to write something here, y’know, something poetic and sweet and whatever cheesy crap you like so much—” Your mouth dropped— _you did not—_ “But I came up blank, because every time I tried to summarize what it’s been like to be with you—to know you—for so long, I couldn’t put it in words.” The edges of his lips twitched nervously. You’d never seen him like this before. “But there’s one thing I know for sure—my whole life, I’ve been blessed to have you around,” he said, “You’ve been there for me, you’ve supported me, you’ve made my life so much better just by  _existing_ —whenever something bad happened, one of the things that got me through is knowing that you’re  _there_  and that you have my back,” he said, “So, for that, I’ve gathered everyone here—your family,  _our_ family—”

He held your right hand with both of his and you could see it in his eyes—how happy he was, they were practically smiling. You mirrored his expression and urged him to continue.

“—to tell them that I’m the luckiest man in the world, and to tell you that yes—” He squeezed your hand, his gaze beaming into yours. “—even though I think you’re insane for this—” He slipped a hand into his pocket and got out a box and opened it. “—I will be blessed and honored to marry you.”

Every time you tried to utter a single syllable, trying to convey one simple reply, your mouth collapsed. Yes. He said _yes._ There weren’t going to be any trials and he said  _yes._  He wiggled his eyebrows at you playfully, got out the ring from the box—the replica, of his mom’s—and slid it on your finger. You wrapped your arms around his neck and jumped. He caught you instinctively, immediately, and supported your weight with his arms as you kissed him, tuning out the squeals and laughs from your small audience. “I love you—”  _Kiss_ “—so much,” you breathed, “Happy belated Valentine’s Day.”

“Mommy,” Jude said, “What’s Valentine’s Day?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it goes! I hope you liked it.


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